


Raymond's Joy

by The Hag (hagsrus)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Bonfire Night, Established Relationship, First Time, Halloween, M/M, Pancake Tuesday, Thanksgiving, Valentine's Day, Whitsun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hagsrus/pseuds/The%20Hag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories written at various times, in various moods, not originally planned as a sequence.</p><p>Some were previously published in zines and online and have been edited for general continuity.</p><p>Whole sequence published as Raymond's Joy in NEVER FAR APART (April 2007, Justazine Publications)</p><p>In the Pumpkin Interest — originally published in The Bisto Kids, Infinity Press, 2001</p><p>Lover's Just a Five Letter Word — originally published in Unprofessional Conduct 11, Gryphon Press, 2000</p><p>To Joan Martin, 1927–2006, beloved editor and friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raymond's Joy

**Raymond's Joy**

**The Hag**

**Gone Fishing**

 

Shape of head, line of neck to powerful shoulders, short-sleeved shirt revealing muscular forearms, strong well-kept hands curled in a relaxed grasp on the fishing rod...Doyle frowned at his sketch, deploring his own deficiencies in figure drawing. He’d started out on the gnarled, graceful intricacies of the enormous old willow tree, but his eyes had been drawn repeatedly to Bodie leaning back against it.

Bodie...He’d been in one of those odd, preoccupied moods lately, an uneasy reminder of the time with Marikka, the time with those bikers. Doyle had been relieved when he’d proposed this fishing weekend, wondering whether there was a potential disaster to be sussed out, or if it had passed and this was the aftermath. Bodie still seemed a bit on the pensive side.

“You ever notice anything weird about these fishing trips?” he asked, turning to a fresh page and reaching for a can of beer.

“What—that you never do any fishing?”

“I end up with as many fish as you without all the bother. None.”

“What about those two I got yesterday?”

“Well,” Doyle replied dismissively, “you chucked ’em back. Hardly counts.”

“Chuck us a beer while we’re on the subject. Ta.”

“I’ll tell you what’s weird, then,” Doyle persisted.

“Apart from you?”

“There’s about as many willing barmaids as fish. Always seems to be their week off when we show up.”

“What, the fish? Could be right at that.”

“They must go off with the barmaids. Doesn’t seem worth it, keep shelling out for double beds.”

“Came in handy that time we scored with those two birds from New Zealand, didn’t it?”

“Right, but it’s buxom barmaids you’re always promising,” Doyle protested. “Ready, willing and absent. Make more sense to ask a couple of girls along in the first place.”

“They get bored with fishing.”

“Well, so do I. I could take ’em for romantic strolls, get yours warmed up for you.”

“Or get them to pose for you,” Bodie suggested. “Nice bit of rustic nudity, like that picture of the fellas having a picnic with the naked bints.”

“Take your mind off killing fish, would it?”

“Suitably stacked, yes.”

“We need to get something organised in future. All this anticipation and no action, bad for my health.”

“If it’s that bad I’ll sleep with you myself,” Bodie offered casually. “Purely medicinal, of course.”

Doyle froze momentarily, aware of Bodie’s eyes fixed on him, then mercifully veiled by those absurdly long lashes, freeing him from paralysis. “Talk about the cure that’s worse than the disease,” he managed.

“More fun than old Rosy Palm, though.” Bodie turned back to the water.

“I wouldn’t know, mate.” _Never dared know._

There had been those two girls at lunch today.

“You didn’t fancy them, those birds at the window table?”

It seemed to take a couple of seconds for the question to register, then Bodie shrugged.

That suited Doyle well enough, just at the moment, but he felt uneasily that he couldn’t drop the topic just like that. Without the distraction of the shared, unending pursuit of the female, the other thing, the desire that must be perpetually repressed, was wont to sneak up on him, and he was all too aware that for a while now it had been centred more and more on Bodie. And if Bodie was going to be taking him unawares with that kind of joke—

“Here, I think something’s biting,” Bodie announced.

“Yeah, gnats. One just got me.” Doyle rubbed at his arm, grateful for the change of focus, and strolled over to contemplate the little area of agitated splashing. “Heave it out and I’ll record it for posterity with me lightning pencil.”

“Look at this whopper, then! Must be nearly two ounces!”

“Make a nice pressie for the hotel cat.”

“Shocking sadist you are, Doyle.”

“Well, Mrs Swithin’s not bad for her age. Work our way into her good graces with a snack for old Fatso Catso—”

“Here you go.” The tiny fish landed neatly on Doyle’s sketchpad. “Save you the bother of drawing it, let alone catching it.”

Doyle flipped it back into the river, then crumpled the soggy sheet and threw it at Bodie’s head.

“Littering the countryside,” Bodie accused primly.

“Stick it in with the empties.” Doyle looked up at the sky. “I’m heading back. Going to pour any minute. Cool things off with a bit of luck. It’s supposed to encourage the fish so I suppose you’ll be staying.”

“Nah. Not that dedicated.” Bodie started to gather up his gear. “I fancy catching a nice rare steak in the restaurant. Back to work tomorrow. Have to check they’ve got our wake-up call booked.”

“Then get a good night’s sleep in our big lonely beds.”

Bodie looked up from his packing. “Like I said, doesn’t have to be lonely.”

Doesn’t usually make the same joke twice, Doyle thought. Not that soon.

Their gazes tangled for a moment, and as Bodie’s eyes shifted away Doyle impulsively blurted “You’re on,” just to see what would happen next, but a spatter of sizeable raindrops drew only an obscenity, and then all was temporarily forgotten in a mad dash towards the shelter of the hotel.

 

“Grayling, now,” said the elderly Mr Forbes. “Get a bit of fun with a grayling.”

“Never tried them,” said Bodie.

“Can’t beat a salmon,” argued Mr Mellings, a burly American whose heart and sartorial inclinations had been hijacked by the Highlands. “Or a sea trout—last year I was fishing the Rora pool on the Ugie and...”

Doyle felt as if he were working undercover. Here he was, ostensibly Raymond Doyle on a fishing weekend with his partner, two good friends watching sports on the box to while away the hours of rain, chatting amiably with other guests, keeping an eye out for the possibility of agreeable female company, while all his senses were edgily alert to the possibility that Bodie wasn’t just having him on.

If that damned rain hadn’t sent them scurrying, would Bodie have dismissed his acceptance of the challenge? Taken it further?

He forced his attention back to the racing reports in the evening paper. Fishing was a marginal sport as far as he was concerned, but Bodie’s generally preferred version was the relaxed sitting-on-the-riverbank kind rather than the grim hip-high-in-waders variety, so he didn’t mind tagging along. The barmaids dangled as bait were always a washout—well, they had become a standing joke—but the food was usually good and the air was fresh, so it made a nice change, and he’d always enjoyed Bodie’s company away from the stresses of work.

_Nobody I’d rather be with_ _..._

“Have to let the reel run out, fifty yards sometimes.” Mellings again. “Once at Loch Bad A Crotha...”

They were waiting for dinner. The small hotel was unusually crowded thanks to a large party of late arrivals seeking refuge from the violent rain, and the restaurant was booked to capacity.

“I got some tarpon fishing at Islamorada once,” Bodie began.

“Brazil, would that be?” Forbes asked politely.

“Florida.” Mellings and Forbes listened tolerantly until they could manoeuvre the conversation back to their own exploits. “Mouth’s all lined with bone,” Bodie nattered on. “Hell of a job to get a hook in. Then talk about back-breaking when you do!”

From the shelter of the newspaper Doyle listened to familiar inflections, watched familiar gestures. Familiarity was tinged with strangeness at the idea that everything might be experienced at a different level of intimacy, that fingers might caress where only his eyes had touched, that lips and tongue might trace what his pencil had endeavoured to capture...

_Need a cold shower in a minute!_

He tried to shut out awareness of Bodie, fixing his eyes on the columns of small print.

_If the bloody nag’s won I’ll take him up on it._

Here it was. Raymond’s Joy—the horse’s ridiculous name had caught Doyle’s eye at the beginning of the season. Irresistible. He could do with a bit of joy. He’d been watching its progress, even placed a couple of minuscule bets just for the hell of it, and so far the joy of all Raymonds concerned had been singularly lacking, but today the horse had actually placed at longish odds.

_Only second place_ _..._

“...a ruddy great salmon at Dalwhinnie like a bucking bronco.” Mr Mellings had the floor again. “Thought it would drag me right under.”

“Ah, well, two ends to a fishing line, aren’t there,” Mr Forbes mused. “A grayling, now...Get a bit of fun...”

Not much fun for the grayling, Doyle surmised, wondering if Mr Forbes got any fun with anything else and whether he should risk backing Raymond’s Joy to win next time. A long shot, but you had to take a chance sometimes.

“Your table’s ready, sir.”

“Thanks—oi, Bodie!” As they waited for their orders to be taken he asked: “When were you in Florida?”

“Well, not me, actually. But I met a bloke in a pub and got my ear bent for a solid hour, so I thought I’d give us a change from Mellings and his Highland hangouts. Bit much, isn’t it, a Royal Stuart tie with a Black Watch jacket. Think he makes all those places up?”

“Get much fishing in Africa? Living off the land?”

“The occasional stick of dynamite in the river. Gets you a quick meal. Never did work out how to get chips.”

“Should have planted a few spuds and dynamited them. Might have come out mashed, though.”

“I’ll remember that next time,” Bodie assured him. “I’m having ’em tonight with my steak, anyway. And onions and mushrooms. What are you getting? Steamed tofu and carrot tops?”

“Aubergine Parmigiana.”

“No wonder you’ve never got the energy to fish. It’s economical, I grant you.”

“I’ll treat us to a bottle of plonk with the savings. Just won three quid on a horse.”

“Ah,” said Bodie. “Knew there was a reason I put up with you.”

So it continued, the usual banter, relish of the food, enjoyment of the wine—and Doyle found himself covertly observing the movements of Bodie’s hands, the parting and closing of his lips, the flexing of his jaw muscles as he chewed and swallowed.

And now, the meal concluded—what now?

“Fancy some billiards if the table’s free?” Bodie suggested.

“I think I’ll make it an early night.” _And now you can offer to sleep with me again and I can say__...__I can say__...___

“I’ll give you a game.” Mellings.

“See you later, then,” Bodie said.

_And what the hell does that mean? You’ll be knocking at my door? Waiting for me to knock at yours?_

_Bloody Mellings_ _..._

 

Despite the continuing rain it was still hot and close. Doyle opened his bedroom window as far as it would go and sprawled on the bed, enjoying the sound of the torrents from which he was safely sheltered.

For a while he turned the pages of a thriller by a writer he usually found riveting, but after three chapters he realised he had no idea of the plot and set the book aside.

_Second place_ _..._ _Almost as good as a win, given its horrible record till now._

He started flipping through his sketchpad. Mostly it contained bits of landscape, but there was today’s sketch of Bodie sitting fishing under a massive willow. He considered it with narrowed eyes and concluded it was better than most of his efforts at people. At least he’d recognise his subject a few months from now, if nobody else would.

Like to get a proper look, he thought, wondering if there was any chance of getting Bodie to pose with his shirt off. _“Here, mate, hold this apple, will you?”_ Bodie would probably have the apple crunched and swallowed before he could grab his pencil. _Like to feel with my fingers, the way I used __to do with Claire, get the shapes properly into my mind_.

_Christ, I’d like to, just once_ _..._

Thoughtfully he explored his own shoulder and neck, but that was no good; they lacked Bodie’s massive muscling.

_Need to take some more classes. Been saying that for years._

Claire’s neck and shoulder had been strong but delicate. He’d traced the swell of neat little breasts, indentation of waist, tiny convolution of navel, sweet curve of hips. He remembered soft skin, soft hair, imbued with her own woman scent. Done his best to capture her on paper, then made love to her, one thing merging into another, the longing to know, to experience, all entangled with tenderness and the blinding imperative of desire.

Never got to know another woman that well, he brooded. Never stayed with one so long. Never had one put up with me that long. That night before the Parsali op I was all set to ask her to marry me if we got through it alive, but then I was thinking about Bodie afterwards, how he admitted being scared, scared all the time, and somehow he was more important and I kept putting it off...

_Just once. Just once._

All his contact with other male bodies had been through conflict, or at best in the fleeting communal embraces that might celebrate a sporting triumph. If his father, brothers, uncles had ever hugged him he couldn’t remember it. Only Bodie offered the occasional touch—a mischievous pinch on the bum or an unexpected hand up the stairs, and that affectionate arm round his shoulders after the Ann fiasco. He’d shrugged that off resentfully at first, but even in the intensity of loss and humiliation it had got through to him, and he’d returned, wrapped his own arm round Bodie and let himself be borne away to the ritual of sorrow-drowning.

Afterwards, when the chagrin had faded into one more uncomfortable memory, he’d found himself recollecting those moments with Bodie. To touch deliberately, a mutual seeking of pleasure—he’d been ducking the idea since puberty, the insidious attraction of other men, that massive taboo beside which murder and mayhem paled. No shortage of offers, either, but common sense, self-discipline, fear of consequences had prevailed.

_Just once. Get it out of my system. Probably be a proper turn-off if it actually happened._

_But with Bodie? What would that do to us?_

_(Who else would I want to do it with except Bodie?)_

_Second place. Good as a win? Toss a coin? Some kind of sign_ _..._

He started at a blinding lightning flash and a simultaneous crash of thunder right overhead, and the rain was a sudden deluge, incredibly noisy, almost as if it were right there in the room—and it was, streaming through sudden radiating cracks in the ceiling, great drops hitting him—

“Bloody hell!”

He rolled off the bed just as a huge slab of saturated plaster came smashing down.

Safe and dry just moments ago. Now—

If this was a sign he didn’t know how to interpret it.

 

“I’m so very sorry, Mr Doyle,” Mr Swithin assured him for the fifth time. “The roofing repairs—”

“All right, yeah, all right,” Doyle reassured him irritably. “But where am I going to kip tonight?”

“You must have our room, of course, we’ll manage—”

“No need for that.” Conscience kicked in. Swithin and his wife were well into their sixties. “I can rough it on a sofa or—”

“Muck in with me,” Bodie offered. “Plenty of room in that bed.”

Inevitable. And manifestly the sensible thing to do. He wouldn’t have thought twice about it at any other time.

“Well, they are king size,” Swithin agreed. “The Americans like them. And of course you’ll be our guests for this stay and—”

“Right, that’s what we’ll do, then,” Doyle agreed fatalistically.

“Looks as if he could do with a stiff drink,” Bodie put in. “Nasty shock like that.”

“I’ll send something up. I must get some tarpaulins or something arranged if you’ll excuse me.” Swithin scurried off. Doyle returned to the wrecked bedroom to rescue his belongings, keeping a wary eye on the ceiling, which dumped unpredictable largesse from its disintegrating edges.

“Here.” Bodie flipped open Doyle’s suitcase and helped shovel stuff in. “Hope your false teeth and truss aren’t under that lot.”

“My bloody sketchpad. Look, if you can shift that chunk I can grab this one and—”

“Can’t deprive the Academy, can we?” The somewhat battered sketchpad was extracted. “This supposed to be me?”

“What?” Disconcerted, as if Bodie could perceive his earlier thoughts, Doyle plucked the pad from Bodie’s hand and dropped it into the suitcase.

“Come on, let’s get in the dry,” said Bodie. “This carpet’s a swamp. I’m catching foot rot.”

“Yeah, well, hope it doesn’t spread along the rest of the ceilings,” Doyle said gloomily, snapping the catches shut and following along to Bodie’s room.

“With Mr Swithin’s compliments.” A young man in jeans and teeshirt Doyle recognised as one of the waiters arrived a moment later and set a tray on the table. “Anything you need, sir?” he asked Doyle. “We’ve got toothbrushes and combs and—”

“No, I got it all out, thanks.”

“Good night, then, gentlemen. We’re all on mop-up duty.”

“Well, that’s a bit of all right,” Bodie approved. “A whole bottle of Highland Park. Poor sod must be terrified you’ll sue him.”

“We could take it back for Cowley.” Doyle sank into an armchair by the window.

“In a pig’s arse. Anyway, he’d complain it wasn’t Glenfiddich.” Bodie poured two generous shots and passed one to Doyle. “Cheers.”

Doyle raised his glass. “Good idea of yours.”

Bodie swallowed appreciatively. “Right. Well, I’m going to have a shower.”

Doyle sat sipping his Scotch, watching the lightning. The rain seemed to be easing up as the storm edged away, and he could hear faint sounds above which he presumed indicated emergency repairs. More water sounds from the bathroom, where Bodie would be naked beneath the shower...

_Second place_ _..._

He roused himself to open his suitcase and sort out his bathroom gear from the tumble within.

He’d shared a room with Bodie during that business with Chives. They’d slept on floors together, with and without sleeping bags, numerous times. They’d heard each other’s snores and farts and occasional nightmares.

But never in the same bed.

_Still got a choice. Even if it’s not all just him trying to wind me up. Stay over on my side and_ _..._

“All yours, mate.” Bodie emerged towelling his hair. “Unless you’ve had enough water for one night.”

“As long as it’s hot.” Doyle heaved himself up. “I’ll have a proper bath, I think.”

“Wouldn’t want an improper one, would you?”

“Might get one if those barmaids ever showed up.”

“Want your back washed?”

“Not tonight, Josephine.” He tried not to think about it.

He poured himself another drink to take with him. A good long bath, he thought. Wash his hair, use the dryer. Might even shave...and with luck Bodie would be asleep by the time he came out. Easier that way.

But he wasn’t. Hadn’t even turned the bedside light off. Lying there on the far side of the bed with just the sheet covering him from the hips down, barely concealing his crotch, sipping from an almost empty glass.

Pale skin, sparse dark hair spattering his chest, dark blue eyes fixed on Doyle, lips slightly curved in greeting.

_Crunch time. Unhurt. Alive. So let’s live_ _..._

Doyle sucked in a deep breath. “You serious, then?”

“You said I was on.” Bodie’s gaze didn’t flinch. “Up to you. No problem either way.”

“Done it before, have you?” Doyle stood irresolute.

“In times of need. Come on, Ray. Just go to sleep if that’s what you want.”

“But you—do you—”

“What?”

“Well—fancy me? It seems—”

“I fancy you.” Bodie suddenly flipped the sheet away, and his cock lay revealed, twitching, tumescent, dangerous, intriguing. “That fancies you.”

_Just once_ _..._

He turned away and poured himself another drink, gulping. Dutch courage. What did the Dutch call it? Was the door properly locked? Didn’t want anyone barging in with early morning tea. “Put the light out, will you?”

He heard Bodie shift in the bed and the room went dark. Quiet. The rain had stopped. The mop-up team had gone. His own breathing sounded harsh in his ears.

He slung his bathrobe over a chair and cautiously approached the bed, misjudging the distance, fumbling with his hand to locate the edge. Cool cotton sheet beneath his fingers. Mattress yielding slightly to his knee, cushioning his body as he stretched out.

A big bed. Plenty of room. No need to touch. Choice still all his own.

He could hear Bodie’s breathing, controlled, consciously calm.

He could stay here, safe on this side of the bed, go to sleep, and forget all about it. Uncompromised.

_Bodie_ _..._

He slid his hand across the bed, finding Bodie’s forearm, resting his fingertips against it, hair-scattered skin warm over solid muscle, flexing slightly beneath his touch.

He ran his fingers down to the big hand, which turned to grasp his own. Bodie’s breath caught and quickened.

_Me. For me. Because of me!_

_Oh christ, rush of blood to the cock_ _..._

_Live, then!_

He rolled onto his side, wriggling across the bed, into the heat of Bodie’s embrace, and was lost in a maelstrom of sensation from which he stumbled some unknown time later, changed forever, exhausted to numbness, inanely muttering “G’night, love” as if he’d been with a woman, though nothing less like a woman was imaginable.

Just once? Fat chance, was his last coherent thought before plunging into oblivion.

 

Sunlight touched his eyes and he woke, happy before he even remembered the night’s revelation, the barriers finally broken.

Bodie was sitting up, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“’Morning,” Doyle yawned.

“Yeah.” Bodie looked at him and quickly away. “Sleep all right?”

“Lovely.”

“You in a hurry for the bog?”

“Not yet.”

Bodie started to climb off the bed. Doyle’s fingers shot out to manacle his wrist.

“What?” Bodie’s expression was wary, not quite hostile.

“Do it again one of these nights?”

“Sometime. Yeah.” Fear? Evasion? Longing? “Let go, will you.”

Doyle loosened his grip slowly. Bodie pulled away and disappeared into the bathroom.

He’s not going to talk about it, Doyle thought. But he started this, and it’s not finished, not by a long chalk.

_Bloody madness, but christ, I never felt so alive._

Two ends to a fishing line. Might have to let the reel run out a long way...

A long shot, but he decided to bet on Raymond’s Joy to win.

 

 

**Fireworks**

 

Stacey shivered. “It’s strange, being cold while you watch fireworks.”

Murphy hugged her close with one arm. “Want my coat?”

“It’s not that bad. But I keep thinking it should feel like July.”

Green and gold sparks shot upwards from a Roman candle.

“Stars, look,” said Kathy. “That’s the best one yet.” She smiled up at Bodie. “I suppose you like bangers and rockets best. My brothers did.”

“Bangers and mash’ll do me.” It was on the tip of his tongue to invite her to join him for some more refined variant, but Doyle nagged at the edge of his thoughts.

“Too old for fireworks,” Doyle had said after watching for a few minutes, hunching his shoulders against the November chill. “Enough bloody explosions this week. I’ve got some work to do on the bike.”

“Bangers—that’s sausages, right?” Kathy asked.

She’d only been here a fortnight. She and Stacey were something at the American Embassy, both attractive blondes, nicely groomed, curvaceous, good legs. Kathy was making the most of the flirtatious potential of learning the local idiom.

“Yeah. Lovely. We used to bake potatoes in the bonfire when I was a kid.”

“We just had barbecues,” she laughed. “Sausages—bangers—and steaks and—” She chattered on. Bodie let the words drift over him, mentally filing anything that sounded useful for future socialising and seduction. Birds liked to think you listened to what they said, and a few details tucked into memory could pay rich dividends. “What other holidays do you have?”

Bodie shrugged. “Christmas. Easter. Whitsun. August bank—”

“Whitsun?”

“About six weeks after Easter.” He assumed a slightly theatrical tone. “Holy Spirit descends in tongues of fire. Everybody understands what everybody else is saying.”

“Oh, you mean Pentecost— Ooh, look!” A row of Catherine wheels spun arcs of fire.

Murphy had been playing house with Stacey for the last couple of months so she’d been off limits, but Kathy appeared to be available and experienced enough to know what she was doing.

Ideal. Just what he liked. Just what he wanted to take his mind off the last few days.

“There’s Forensics picking through the wreckage,” Doyle had muttered sourly. “Even if they trace the explosives it doesn’t do us much good. Those bastards could plant a dozen more tonight.”

Children ran about with sparklers, pursued by warnings from their anxious mums. Rockets whistled into the air. Firecrackers leapt and spat. More Roman candles spurted silver and blue, some generating eldritch screams.

_Used to look forward to Guy Fawkes when I was a kid. All _ _the noise and excitement. Me and my mates, hoarding our pocket money, scrounging for old clothes and anything that would do to stuff a guy and hanging round the streets begging for pennies. Hours agonising over the fireworks display at the toy shop, the way we did over sweets the rest of the year. Then the Fifth, most likely raining, always cold, and an hour or two of flames and bangs and charred potatoes, then you were broke, waiting for the next year amidst the burnt-out cardboard casings that littered the streets for a day or so_ _..._

It was reaching the end now in spectacular arching cascades of colour high overhead.

_Like sex. All over too soon, and there you are, burnt out and flat._

_Sweets are better value. Or a good rare steak with a heap of chips. Or lasagne. Bloody good lasagne at Ray’s last time_ _..._

“Fancy going for dinner?” he asked, and, surprising himself, added with no more than a fractional pause: “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’d love to.”

_Why not tonight? She’s ready, willing and able. Might be dead tomorrow._

And then, alone, almost unthinking, he was heading for Doyle.

 

It was a good set-up, a ground floor flat with a little patch of garden and a lock-up garage attached. Bodie approached quietly, liking to observe Doyle unawares, to glimpse his private concentration, to gauge from his first reaction if he was wrapped in one of his bitter-tongued miseries or receptive to company.

Doyle was squatting on the floor, peering into the exposed inner workings of his current restoration.

“Can’t stay away from those old wrecks, can you?”

Doyle squinted up at him. “Thought you were off playing fireworks.”

“Finished. Fancy something to eat?”

Doyle prodded with a screwdriver. “Had a sandwich.”

“Anything left?”

“Cowley never warned me I was getting partnered with a plague of locusts. Chuck us that spanner on the bench, will you?”

Obediently he passed it down. “Cowley never warned me I was hiring on as your handmaiden.”

“Weren’t you and that Kathy getting cosy, then?”

“Seeing her tomorrow.”

Doyle grunted. “There’s some cheese and the rest of the loaf if you want it. Back door’s unlocked. Fetch me a beer while you’re at it, handmaiden.”

“Your every wish.”

Bodie paused for a moment as he opened the door into Doyle’s kitchen, remembering the last time he’d been here, a couple of weeks ago. Doyle had been in one of his welcoming moods, inviting him over, serving up lasagne. Bodie had splurged on some decent wine, and they had sat in warm relaxation, eating and drinking, unspoken anticipation of the night sparking between them.

And what a night, Bodie thought, piling bread and butter and cheese and pickle into a substantial plateful. He collected a couple of cans of lager from the fridge and carried them with the sandwiches back to the garage.

“Ta.” Doyle stood up, wiped his hands on a rag, snapped one of the cans open and almost absent-mindedly appropriated a sandwich. “Go on stuffing like that, you’ll have room for a whole army to march on your stomach.”

“Good cheese, this. Remember to get some more,” Bodie told him cheerfully. “You finished with the wreck?”

Doyle kicked the front wheel affectionately. “Going to take her out and see how she runs in a minute.”

“Tonight?”

“Want to come? You can use the spare skid lid.”

“Don’t know if this jacket’s warm enough. Not used to riding pillion, anyway.”

Doyle shrugged. “Up to you, mate.” He swallowed the remains of his sandwich, tilted the rest of the beer down his throat, and started to peel out of his overalls.

Bodie watched him for a moment, the familiar tingle of need licking at groin and hands and lips. He knew that if he wanted Doyle tonight he’d have to stay with him, not hang about waiting for his return and the likelihood of a brusque “See you tomorrow, then”.

_And if he’ll sleep with me tonight he’ll want his turn. Always the snag, screwing another bloke—have to put up with letting him screw you if he wants to_ _..._ _if you want to bed him again._

He buttoned his jacket as high as it would go, reached for the crash helmet, and meekly climbed on behind Doyle, surrendering to his control.

 

“You’re a bloody nutter,” he said feelingly a couple of hours later.

“You knew that.” Doyle grinned at him cheerfully, stowing the crash helmets, exhilarated with adrenaline.

“Better hope the Old Man never hears about you using the fine print to get away with doing the ton on the motorway. And I’m bloody frozen.”

“You want to stay? I’ll warm you up.”

_That Kathy, warm and ready, could probably have had her tonight._

At the end of the road someone was letting off a few last fireworks.

“Roman candle,” Doyle said. “That’s what I feel like. Just light my blue touch paper.”

“You’ve done it before?” Doyle had asked last time. “Both ways?”

“Every way there is. You’re in good hands, mate,” Bodie had assured him, dizzy with the prospect.

“You like it then? Both ways?”

_Couldn’t say no, could I? And it wasn’t that bad sometimes. Christ, been bloody years, concentrating on women, always hoping to find one who’d make me forget how it feels with a man, stop me wanting a man_ _..._

“Want to do me first?” he’d offered recklessly, thinking to get the worst over.

Doyle had shaken his head slowly. “Next time. When I know what it’s like.”

And he’d seemed okay with it, lying on his side, relaxing to let it happen, reassuringly tumescent in the caressing grasp of Bodie’s fingers which finally brought him to climax.

Then, rolling over, he’d slipped a hand behind Bodie’s head and planted a kiss on his mouth before swinging himself off the bed and heading for the bathroom.

_Never kissed a man, never been kissed by a man_ _..._

He’d been avoiding Doyle sexually since then. It was easy enough, just making it plain that he was occupied with various women. Doyle never seemed bothered, pursuing his own way. It had been that way from the beginning, a night together, then the retreat to normalcy, until Bodie’s need crept up to fever pitch and he would toss out an ostensibly casual invitation, which Doyle would just as casually accept or refuse.

Well, that was okay. Casual was good. Casual was how it was meant to be.

“How about tomorrow, then?” he’d ask if Doyle turned him down. And Doyle would usually agree, or suggest another day and wouldn’t stand him up.

Casual. Mates having a bit of fun.

Except that fucking Doyle had somehow been a bit more than that.

Being kissed by Doyle had been a lot more than that.

He wondered why he couldn’t just have done with it all.

He wondered if Doyle would kiss him again.

“Yeah, all right,” he said, and followed Doyle into the flat.

 

“So you’re seeing this Kathy tonight, are you?”

“Well, it’s what it’s all about, really, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Women. This other stuff, it’s just...” _What the hell am I doing?_

Doyle’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Just...?”

_I could put her off. I could—that’s daft. Be asking Ray out next. Off on a honeymoon instead of a fishing trip._

“Look, Ray...”

“I’ll give Sandra a call. Promised to take her out on the bike as soon as it was ready.”

_Bloody Sandra! She’ll be sitting behind him, arms round his waist the way I had to last night, my hands so bloody cold, him going like a maniac till I was afraid of missing a curve and throwing us off balance._

“Ray, why don’t we—”

But Doyle was on his feet, stretching, yawning. “There’s that friend of hers, Chrissie, she likes bikes too. Want to make a foursome?”

“I’ll let you know.”

He sat hugging his knees, watching Doyle amble out of the bedroom, listening to the sounds of running water, heaving himself out of bed when the noises told him the bathroom was empty.

He grimaced at soreness, remembering how long it had been since he’d submitted to being used that way. But Doyle had been very careful, very—full of care?—until he’d seemed to accept that Bodie was all right with it, and then there had been a sweet wildness that had swept Bodie into a pleasure he’d never felt before. Well, once or twice in those times past there might have been a hint of it, a sensation he’d mistrusted then. Somehow he’d been more relaxed about it last night; somehow the awareness that it was Ray had made it different, not like being used at all, and if it was going to happen again, perhaps—

No. There was Kathy, who should be worth a good couple of weeks at least, and it was time to be done with this nonsense with Doyle. All very well in the jungle and at sea, but not here, not when there were birds for the taking.

Doyle hadn’t kissed him this time.

_Thought he was going to, but I turned my head away, and he said good night and something under his breath I couldn’t hear, didn’t hear. “Love” he said that first night but he was punchy from it all, same as last night, just said good night _ _and flopped over on his side and went out like a light._

_Sound of him breathing. Heat of him beside me. Peaceful. Must have gone to sleep without knowing it._

A foursome on the bikes? It was going to be all right. Just mates having fun, and the other stuff was over. Safely over.

When they left the building he kicked a burned-out rocket carcass into the gutter.

_Over? Just like that?_ He shivered slightly in the grey chill. _Just like that?_

Light the blue touch paper and retire to a safe distance, the instructions said. Best never to light it at all.

_Too old for fireworks_ _..._

 

 

**Thanks for the...**

 

“One of them colonial celebrations.” Doyle’s tone was dismissive. “Sort of a knockoff Harvest Festival.”

“Oh, right. Kind of Christmas preview. Turkey and...”

“Pumpkin pie, Stacey says,” Murphy contributed.

“Pumpkin? Turn into a glass coach at midnight? Indigestible.” Doyle grimaced. “Why not apple? Got apples over there, right?”

“Give it a try,” Murphy urged. “She’s feeling homesick, misses her family an’ that.”

“Must be if she wants to feed half the mob on turkey. Here,” a thought struck Doyle, “not asking anyone who’ll bring kids, are you?”

“Wasn’t planning to. Should be quite civilised.”

“How many birds coming, then?”

“Well, there’s the turkey.”

“That’ll do for Bodie. What’s on offer for me?”

Murphy reeled off a list of female guests. “Bit short of fellas, if anything.”

“No problem if I’m there,” Bodie promised. “Give ’em numbers at the door.”

“We’ll do that,” Murphy declared, just as the phone rang an imperious summons back to duty.

 

And, to Bodie’s chagrin, there was Doyle set up at a card table just inside the door with a coil of numbered tickets and a tastefully lettered sign: TAKE A NUMBER FOR BODIE.

“Some very coarse remarks I’ve heard, sunshine,” he grinned. “I reckon Murph was being a bit disingenuous about the birds outnumbering blokes—they’ve mostly brought their own. This eggnog’s tasty.” He took a noisily appreciative gulp from the glass he held.

“Just the one ticket?” Bodie demanded indignantly. “Who’s got it, then?” He eyed Doyle suspiciously.

“Didn’t see anyone take it.” Doyle turned to greet two newcomers. “Evening, Carol.” He didn’t recognise the other one, and she would have lingered in the memory.

“Whose body would that be?” Carol asked sweetly. “Ray never could spell for toffee,” she confided to her companion.

“Ray, is it?” The brunette gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m Mandy. You need anything spelled, just give me a call down in Secretarial.”

“I’ll definitely keep it in mind. That Neanderthal breathing down your cleavage is your actual Bodie; we’re raffling him for charity.”

“What charity?” Carol asked.

“Getting him laid. Pitifully deprived.” Doyle shook his head sadly. “Can’t give the tickets away.”

“Ahhh,” Mandy crooned soulfully, “and him with such lovely blue eyes.” She smiled up at Bodie. “I don’t need a ticket, do I?”

Bodie invited her to try the buffet.

“That’s a nice kind girl,” Doyle approved to Carol. “Takes pity on the afflicted.” He was aware of Bodie’s surreptitious glance back at him. He shoved the roll of tickets into his pocket. “Drink, dance or both?”

“Dance till we get to the drink, eh?”

“Devious dancing, yeah.”

 

They found Mandy nibbling delicately at a slice of turkey, and Bodie nibbling alternately at her earlobe and a helping of key lime pie. His concentration was disrupted, to his increasing annoyance, by one of Stacey’s fellow expatriates, who, well lubricated with an eclectic sampling of scotch, bourbon, gin and white wine spritzer, had designated Bodie the recipient of his detailed opinions on the merits of baseball as opposed to cricket, and was starting to take personally Bodie’s disinclination to debate.

The bottle of vodka some unknown hand had added to the eggnog Doyle and various others had been absorbing might have been an aggravating factor.

“Look, buddy,” the Yank slurred, “I don’...’preciate this...standoffish limey ’titude...jus’ bit of polite conver—”

“_You_ look, buddy. I’ve got a charming young lady here, and a piece of bloody good pie, and I’d rather not be interrupted, ta very much.”

“Pie?” The Yank looked around vaguely, then scooped up a pie plate from the table. “Try this f’ size, you unsosh...soshable...sonofa...”

Doyle didn’t remember having defended Bodie against assault by pie before, but he had mastered various martial arts and was willing to give slapstick a try. In retrospect, he realised he could have pinned the Yank’s wrist to the buffet table; as it was, the pumpkin pie was poised for the classic face-impact before Doyle diverted the Yank’s aim, and a moment later Mandy was squealing under a rich deluge of pumpkin and piecrust, while Bodie turned the air blue as the remains of the key lime pie tumbled neatly into his crotch.

 

“Thought you said this would be adult,” Doyle grumbled to Murphy. “Sorry, Stacey—it was that bloke on about baseball’s fault, though. Should’ve let him do it. Dunno why Carol threw those yam things at Lucas, though—that’s what really got it escalated. Must be some hidden agenda going on there.” He reached for another handful of paper towel and rubbed at his hair.

“Think they had a difference of opinion a couple of weeks ago,” Murphy said. “Must have been a lot of differences getting aired tonight.”

“It was just like home,” Stacey announced happily. “It wasn’t Thanksgiving without my brothers pitching food at each other, and when Uncle Todd had a few under his belt he always went for the cranberries. Mom used to make them clean the whole house top to bottom afterwards—counted on it, instead of spring cleaning.”

“Uncle Todd must be a distant relation of Mandy’s.” Doyle regarded the red mess on the towel with distaste. “Dunno why she thought it was my fault. I was just trying to stop things before Bodie...”

“Screwed are the peacemakers,” Murphy said philosophically. “We’ll give our Mrs Cravat an emergency cleaning call in the morning—all right, Stace?”

“Got the worst of it wiped off the walls, anyway,” Doyle consoled her.

“No problem.” Stacey yawned. “I’m bushed—are they all gone?”

“I’m pushing off too,” Doyle assured her. “Need to wash my hair before I can go to bed.”

“Want some of these leftovers?” Stacey invited.

Doyle accepted a chocolate cream pie which by some oddity of fate had escaped utilisation as an offensive weapon. _Time to twitch the fishing line__..._

 

“Yeah?” Bodie’s voice over the intercom was unwelcoming.

“You got company?”

“No. What the hell do you want?”

“Got a claim ticket, haven’t I?”

“Piss off.”

Doyle waited a moment, then leaned on the buzzer for long seconds.

“I said—”

“Brought you a consolation prize, sunshine.”

Silence. One...two...three...the slow count between lightning flash and..._c’mon, Bodie__..._five...six...The click of the main lock, not quite a thunderclap...Doyle headed buoyantly up the stairs, too impatient for the lift, grinning helplessly with the sudden release from three weeks of anxiety.

Bodie stood at the flat door, barring his way, trying to suppress his own echoing grin. “If that’s more bloody pumpkin—”

“Good stuff. Chocolate. Want it applied direct?” Doyle tilted the dish threateningly on his hand. “Let me in, then.” He put the pie down on the hall table while Bodie set the locks.

“Cost me a fortune in dry cleaning,” Bodie grumbled. “What’s on your neck?”

“Cranberry. Must have missed it. All in my hair too. That Mandy’s a nutter.”

“Had her all lined up.” Bodie stared at Doyle, who was leaning on one arm against the wall, slant-hipped, and sucked in a breath of helpless desire. “Soddin’ shameless, you are. Come here.” Bodie ducked his head to lick at the red streak on Doyle’s neck. “Not bad. Should’ve let me get the full-facial—I’d have got her on sympathy, innocent victim.”

“Once she’d stopped laughing herself silly. Couldn’t you charm her into your vile clutches anyway?”

“Not with her all covered in pumpkin, no. Wasn’t feeling a bit friendly after that. Couldn’t you tell?” Bodie pulled Doyle against him. “I take it _you’re_ glad to see me...what the hell _is_ that in your pocket?”

“The rest of the tickets. Figuring on claiming ’em all eventually.”

“Did you aim it at her on purpose?” Bodie grabbed a handful of Doyle’s curls and tilted his head back to get at more cranberry, then recoiled. “Your hair’s full of yuck.”

“Told you, didn’t I? I’ll have a shower in a minute.”

“Can I—” Bodie glanced towards the pie.

“No you bloody can’t! All this mixing lust and gluttony, not hygienic. Just eat it the normal way while I go and get cleaned up.”

“Stuck with you tonight, am I? What other tribal holidays is Stacey likely to spring on us?”

“Fourth of July. Colonial Rebellion. Fireworks.”

Bodie shuddered. “Still getting twinges from Guy Fawkes—you and your impression of a roman candle...”

“Never mind, love. I’ll give you something to be really thankful for when I get out of the shower.”

“Got the pie, anyway.” Bodie headed for the kitchen. Groping in the drawer for a fork he suddenly froze.

_“Love”?_

Doyle had muttered that once or twice before flaking out after a heavy session, but right out in the open?

“Pie in the ears,” he said aloud, shaking his head. “Bloody daft,” and plunged the fork into the rich filling, visualising the roll of tickets and relishing sweetness somehow more satisfying than any he could remember.

 

 

**Secret Smile**

 

“Valentine Acrostic: Famous Lovers,” Carol announced.

Murphy looked across the table at the magazine and rolled his eyes. “That should take about two minutes.”

“Nobody asked you, clever clogs.” Carol turned to Mandy and Stacey. “They give you the initials, see, but you have to fit one letter into the pattern to get the quotation by...” She squinted at the page. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

“It’ll be ‘How Do I Love Thee’,” Bodie predicted.

Carol ran her pen down the grid. “That would fit. I’ll write it down the side here in case it’s not.”

“Whose round is it?” Doyle asked sleepily.

“Yours,” five voices chorused.

“And some more peanuts and chips,” Stacey suggested.

“That’s crisps, woman, crisps,” Murphy reminded her. “You’re in a civilised country now.”

She made a face at him. “You wait till we get to New York. You’ll have to say chips and french fries and—”

“Going to New York?” Mandy asked with envy.

“In May. See if Mom likes the idea of me being Mrs Murphy one day.”

“Nobody’s mum could be that desperate,” Bodie said. “Where’s our drinks, then, Ray? Think they’d fry us up some real chips if you asked nicely?”

“No.” Doyle heaved himself to his feet.

“I’ll have a large Glenlivet this time,” Bodie announced.

“You’ll have another pint and like it.”

“Lovely bum Ray’s got,” Carol sighed to Mandy, watching his progress towards the crowded bar.

Murphy and Bodie listened with appalled fascination to the ensuing birds’-eye assessment of various attributes of their male colleagues.

“Whatever happened to maidenly reticence?” Murphy asked sadly, receiving an unmaidenly response from his betrothed.

“And you’ll have to learn to do that the British way,” Carol chided her. “Look, it’s like a V-sign, only you—”

“What’s the first clue, then?” Bodie demanded.

“What? Oh. ‘C/H’,” Carol read. “Need an ‘H’ fourth letter if this is the right quotation.”

“Cathy/Heathcliffe,” Stacey supplied. “Oh, I just adore that movie.”

“All right. Next one’s ‘R/J’ with ‘O’ just right so that’s Romeo/Juliet out of the way, then there’s ‘P/W’, needs a ‘W’ sixth letter, ten letters altogether.”

“Might be Peter/Wendy,” was Mandy’s doubtful contribution. “Just kids they were, though.”

Doyle set the tray down. “You owe me a large Glenfiddich your next round,” he told Bodie.

“Yeah yeah. What crisps did you get? Bacon?”

“‘D/J’,” Carol read.

“David and Jonathan,” Mandy giggled.

That smile touched Doyle’s lips for a moment, that small, secret smile that always stirred a response somewhere in Bodie’s soul.

Carol shook her head reprovingly. “Respectable family magazine, this. Nothing kinky allowed.”

“Who were they?” Stacey asked. “Was that the Goliath David?”

“Right. Jonathan was King Saul’s son. ‘And David’s soul was knit with Jonathan’s.’ That’s so romantic, isn’t it? My dad was a right old Bible-thumper and we couldn’t read anything else on Sundays, so us kids used to go through it for the sexy bits. Somebody told us to look at the bit about Bathsheba and then we started seeing what else he got up to. Saul got pissed off at David so David had to hide out, and Jonathan went to meet him, and they...”

“Give over, Carol,” Mandy urged. “You’re making the fellas blush.”

“Well, I think it’s ever so sweet. Darby and Joan, it must be.”

_Thy love to me was wondrous, passing the love of women._ Bodie had been stranded with only a disintegrating Bible for company in an African jail. He sipped at his Glenlivet, carefully not looking at Doyle, idly surveying the gaudy Valentine hearts and Cupid figures that decorated the pub walls. Undignified, that cherub. “You got C/P, Cupid and Psyche, on that list?”

“One of the ‘E’s, very good.” Carol wrote it in.

“What about ‘H/L’? Fourth letter O?”

“Hero,” Mandy supplied after a few moments. “Her mum must’ve had a weird taste in names. Leander used to swim the Hellespont every night to have it off with her.”

“Why?” Doyle wanted to know.

“Don’t remember. Family problems, I suppose. Would have been ructions if anyone found out.”

_Know that feeling,_ Bodie thought.

“Right. ‘B/D’,” Carol said. “Needing an ‘I’ sixth letter.”

“Bodie and Doyle,” giggled Stacey.

Bodie froze imperceptibly but Doyle laughed and aimed a peanut at her. “Sixth letter, you twit.”

“Hang about.” Murphy grimaced in deep thought.

“Look,” Mandy said, “he’s got steam coming out his ears.”

“Beatrice!” Murphy exploded triumphantly. “And Dante.”

“Good.” Carol wrote it in. “You were right about the quotation, Bodie.”

“Course I was.” Bodie leaned back in his chair and risked a glance at Doyle, who seemed to have found some joke to share with Mandy.

Delectable, Mandy was. Bodie considered he still had a chance there, if she would just forget what had happened at Stacey’s bloody Thanksgiving party. She’d assured him she didn’t hold him responsible, but the memory of a cleavage full of pumpkin lingered as a potent anaphrodisiac. Bodie still wasn’t sure whether or not Doyle had nobbled her, the way he’d deflected that pie the drunken Yank had been aiming.

Cupid was aiming his stylised little arrows from his pretty little bow—a travesty of implacable Eros.

Mandy’s hair was silken brown, her skin youth-smooth, curves, as the saying went, in all the right places. Definitely worth another shot. Except...

There was Doyle, all bone and muscle, lithe as a hunting cat; slept like a cat, too, usually waking to sounds and movements, claws and fangs always ready, but totally boneless when he felt safe. Bodie expected to hear him purring some nights, the nights he was Bodie’s...

“‘H/A’,” Carol was asking.

_Hadrian and Antinous,_ Bodie thought. _Hephaistion and Alexander. Hyakinthos and Apollo. Whatshisname and Aristogeiton._

Murphy said: “Heloise and Abelard.”

“Kid who lived at the Plaza?” Stacey queried flippantly.

“That’s Eloise.” Mandy looked up from whatever she was giggling about with Doyle. “We had that book. You going to stay at the Plaza, Stace?”

“Fat chance. Straight out to Brooklyn, nothing fancy.”

“Dyin’ of thirst here,” Doyle complained. He had one arm along the back of Mandy’s chair, lightly caressing her shoulder. “Your round, Bodie.”

Progress to the bar was slow. Bodie felt smothered by the crowd, oppressed by the stale, smoky air, deafened by the voices, shaken by Stacey’s offhand joke. He and Doyle had spent the day trying to evade February sleet, tediously waiting for a meet that never materialised. The close, fuggy atmosphere of the pub would have looked like paradise then, but now he almost wished himself back in the open raw chill, alone with Doyle. Anywhere, alone with Doyle. He looked into the mirror behind the bar, at the reflection of their table. Murphy was holding hands with Stacey, the two of them leaning forward to study the acrostic. Carol was writing in another answer. Mandy was laughing into Doyle’s eyes.

Then Doyle turned his head and looked towards the bar until he located Bodie and found his reflection, and despite the distance their mirrored eyes caught and held. Doyle smiled the small, secret smile that Bodie thought was just for him, the smile that promised tonight. Then Bodie’s attention was dragged away by the overworked barmaid waiting to serve him.

When he reached the table, Carol and Mandy were off to the ladies. Stacey, designated driver for the girls and Murphy, took her bitter lemon and murmured they should be going soon. Doyle shifted his chair away from Mandy’s empty one and sipped Glenfiddich in silence. His eyes met Bodie’s for a moment, and the secret smile was there; then he pushed his chair back and headed for the gents.

Was anybody else on the receiving end of that secret smile? He wasn’t sure of anything except that Doyle sometimes, unsentimentally, called him “love” when they were in bed. Who else heard that prosaic “love” on Doyle’s tongue and knew the shattering temptation to forsake all others?

He picked up the discarded magazine, ran his eye down the puzzle they had finished while he was at the bar, and substituted two names for Beatrice and Dante. When he was sure that all attention was off him, he tore out the page, folded it and tucked it into his pocket.

But he doubted he’d have the guts to give it to Doyle.

 

 

**Pancake Tuesday**

 

Bodie belched discreetly behind his hand. “Pardon. Too many sheep’s eyeballs.”

Doyle poured the last of the batter into the crepe pan. “So what are you giving up for Lent, you uncouth yobbo?”

“Dunno.” Bodie leaned back in his chair and surveyed his plate with happy reminiscence. “Yes I do. Pancakes. Couldn’t manage another one ever. Well, not till next Shrove Tuesday.”

“Don’t want this one, then?”

Bodie shook his head regretfully.

“Might’ve told me before I started cooking it. Wonder if I can still—” Doyle’s pancake tossing skill had improved steadily during the evening, and now he put muscle behind it. “Ha!” he crowed triumphantly. “Used to drive me mum spare, that did!”

“Not surprised.” Bodie stared up at the pancake adhering to the ceiling. “Simple pleasures for simple minds. Your mice got ropes and pitons?”

“Bats, mate. And don’t say it.” Doyle filled the kettle. “Coffee?”

“Ta.”

“You could start clearing that lot away,” Doyle suggested.

“In a minute. Can’t move. No wonder they call it Fat Tuesday. Must’ve put on half a stone tonight. Fancy going to New Orleans for Mardi Gras next year?”

“Or Blackpool?”

“They don’t have Carnaval in bloody Blackpool!”

“Nice and bracing in February. Start Mardi Gras there, do wonders for the tourist trade. Surprised Mrs T never thought of it. No swamps full of mosquitoes giving everyone yellow fever.”

Bodie shuddered. “I’ll settle for yellow fever any day. Took a bird there once. She trod in a rock pool and blamed me for spoiling her new Italian shoes. Never let up the whole time.”

“Too small for you, were they?” Doyle scooped instant coffee into the mugs.

“Would have been closer than I came to getting into anything else she was wearing. Blackpool!” Bodie started to replace the lid on an empty jar. “You’re out of strawberry jam.”

They had started with the lemon juice and sugar Doyle insisted were traditional in his family, but Bodie had rapidly grown bored with that. His appetite far from sated, he had pillaged the cupboard and fridge, devouring pancakes with mustard, tinned peaches, curry powder, mango chutney, Branston pickle, Gentleman’s Relish (Doyle tried to claim he wasn’t entitled), honey, tomato ketchup, cocoa mix, tarragon vinegar, and Cooper’s Oxford marmalade, both sweet and bitter. He had declined Doyle’s offers of alfalfa sprouts, granola, and motor oil. The strawberry jam had been his favourite.

Doyle set coffee in front of him and leaned back against the sink to sip his own. Bodie contemplated him with arrogant anticipation, eyes appraising what hands and mouth would later claim. Doyle shot him a glance of responsive complicity, subtly shifting from casual lounging to deliberate provocation.

“You’ve got flour in your hair,” Bodie teased with lazy interest.

“Flowers?” Doyle swiped at his luxuriant mop. “Can’t ’ave! All those sheep’s eyeballs must be rotting whatever you’re trying to use for brains.”

“Flour, you berk. Unless you’re getting much greyer all of a sudden. At your age I suppose the hearing’s not so keen.” Bodie shook his head in kindly commiseration.

“Flour’s not so messy as those bloody cranberries at Stacey’s Thanksgiving do.” Doyle grinned at the memory. “Never did get Mandy to come across, did you?”

“Can’t compete with pumpkin down the cleavage,” Bodie conceded ruefully. “If you’d just minded your own business...Tell you what, though, I really liked that key lime pie Stacey had. Americans do some good stuff. If we go to New Orleans—”

“You’d go straight to McDonald’s,” Doyle predicted.

Bodie glared at him. “So what are you doing about Lent, then, Escoffier?”

“Giving up cooking for Neanderthals like you.” Doyle gazed at the suspended pancake. “Thinking about giving up birds.”

Bodie’s world suddenly shifted. “Birds?” he repeated feebly.

“Mmm.” Doyle started to clean the work surfaces and run water into the sink. “Just for Lent. Get that lot cleared off, will you?”

Glad of the distraction, Bodie returned the various containers to their proper homes, then gathered china and cutlery and took them to the sink.

Doyle smelled faintly of shampoo and aftershave. Bodie looked forward to banishing that civilised scent with the muskiness of arousal. Heat prickled through his groin as he remembered the last time, Doyle sprawled over him, licking sweat from the back of his neck and shoulders in lazy aftermath like a big tawny cat grooming its mate, claws sheathed in velvet. _Made him yowl._ Doyle, a cat who walked by himself, had chosen to walk with Bodie, to lie down with Bodie. _Made him purr._

“Birds?” he said again. “Not sex, though?”

“Didn’t say sex, did I?” Doyle concentrated on scrubbing the outside of the pan with unusual vigour. He wore the carefully relaxed expression that he always hoped effectively concealed all emotion, but the slight acceleration of his breath betrayed him.

“You thinking exclusive, Ray?” A wisp of anxiety was dispelled; others drifted in to take its place.

“Don’t see me cruising the bloody gay pubs, do you?” Doyle snapped.

Bodie slid his arms round Doyle’s waist and nuzzled the silvery patch at his temple, then grazed his lips over the still-smooth cheek, homing in on the damaged bone as he always did.

Always did.

Always...

Doyle shifted slightly, leaning back into the embrace, tilting his face a fraction to pursue the caress. “Not asking you.” Now his voice was painfully calm. “Just so you know what _I’m_ doing the next six weeks. Or not doing.”

It was more than six weeks since he had slept with anyone but Doyle. His frustrated pursuit of the delectable Mandy had been as much habit as urgent lust. In his arms was Doyle, habit and lust and...a bloody good cook into the bargain. “Could try for six weeks, then. Don’t know if I— See how it goes, eh?”

“See how it goes,” Doyle agreed, setting the last plate in the draining rack. He turned and wrapped Bodie in damp arms.

“Weird, that,” he remarked a little while later when the need to breathe restored the use of his tongue.

“Weird,” Bodie agreed hazily. “What is?”

“Well, by all the rules that pancake should’ve fallen on us while we were snoggin’, but it’s still up there.”

“If it’s still there next year we’ll send old Murph up with some strawberry jam to keep it company.” Bodie edged them towards the table. “Talking of things being up, fancy giving this exclusive lark a proper tryout, then?”

“Just for Lent, right?” Doyle’s wiry body promised six weeks of something far removed from austerity.

_Don’t want it lent, want it to keep._ Bodie wondered about his own sanity. _Only six weeks? Fat chance!_

“Didn’t you wipe the table?” Doyle complained. “Jam and mustard and...never mind, love...”

They didn’t notice the pancake falling, but later Bodie discovered it with his bare foot and commented freely.

 

 

**A Time to Speak**

 

“There you go, love,” said the middle-aged woman who sold Bodie a bottle of Glenlivet at the off license and bade him good afternoon with a vaguely maternal smile.

“G’night, love,” Doyle had muttered drowsily that first night.

“Whoops, sorry, love,” giggled the teenage girl who almost collided with him and gave him the full benefit of her brand new eyelashes.

“Be careful, love,” Doyle had said matter-of-factly as they split up for their separate assignments; they were out of earshot of any listener but far too visible to risk touching, except for the light admonitory punch Doyle landed on his arm. And—it had almost felt like touching—he had swept a comprehensive green gaze over Bodie as if engraving him on his mind before turning away.

_“__...__is just a four-letter__...__”_ drifted Dylan from the radio of a passing car.

Easter had disappeared in a shrieking Good Friday chaos of exploded rubble and shattered bodies. Trying to avert the threatened next attack scattered the Squad everywhere, Bodie to Liverpool and Doyle to Manchester. Thoughts of the six-week exclusive experiment had been effectively banished from their minds. Now, in the few hours they had been granted, Bodie remembered and wondered if the deal was still on. Not that he had any non-exclusive plans just now: he had missed Doyle with an aching discomfort that astonished him, and their urgent, almost violent reunion had only left him hungry for more of the same, hoping, fearing to hear that word again.

Doyle lay with his hands tucked behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling, his breathing slowly settling to its normal rate.

“You okay?” Bodie ran a finger along the familiar path from damaged cheekbone to the soft flesh beneath Doyle’s jaw.

“What?” Doyle turned his face with a hint of a weary smile.

“The old sadness after sex, is it?” Bodie asked.

“Not really. Just wondering if it’s worth getting up and going to the shops. Got some milk on the way in but there’s not much else, except the Glenlivet. Don’t know how long this bloody Macklin session tomorrow’s going on, and the Old Man’s probably got something nasty lined up for right after. Best leave it. You got the melancholics, then?”

“Thought we’d at least get a couple of days unconditional after all this non-stop saving the country. Been going flat out since Easter and won’t even get bloody Whitsun bank holiday.”

“Doesn’t seem to affect women,” Doyle said thoughtfully. “The sadness. Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

“Probably because they can just keep on when they’re in the mood,” was Bodie’s speculation. “Don’t need the recovery time. Just keep coming till they flake out with sheer exhaustion. Or you do. Or they run out of batteries.”

“It’s all right when you can just go right to sleep, but birds don’t fancy that much. Like a bit of cuddling, don’t they?”

“Touch of afterglow.” Bodie liked it too. “Does wonders for the disposition.” He regretted Doyle’s tendency to shift away once the sex was over. “Don’t you ever like it, then?”

“Depends on the bird, a bit,” Doyle said candidly. “Once your brain’s got a few drops of blood back—you wonder sometimes, don’t you? When I was with Claire, well, we got used to each other, knew how to make each other...comfortable.”

“Miss her, do you?”

_Hankering after a warm girl? Thought I would be by this time, too._

“Well...it was good, what we had. Very fond of her. Should’ve had the sense to hang on to her. Thought about marrying her. She’d’ve suited me better than Ann. She didn’t mind if I went to sleep.” He grinned suddenly. “Quite domestic. Sometimes she’d even tidy up and fetch me a cup of tea, though mostly she had enough of that lark on the ward. Was sorry when she packed me in.”

Bodie, accustomed to thinking of Ann as the dangerous one, digested this for a moment. “Not very romantic, that. Thought you’d always hold out for the grand passion.”

Doyle caught his breath, seemed about to reply, then turned his head slightly, lips twitching into a small, rueful smile. “Like I said, comfortable. Lot to be said for comfortable.”

“Yeah.” Bodie groped for something safe. “Air hostesses, now, they really like a bit of cosseting off duty. Can’t be much fun traipsing up and down the aisles smiling all the time, pampering idle sods like us and getting their bums pinched.”

“Never pinched one in me life!” Doyle sniffed. “Not while she was aisle-traipsing, anyway.” He yawned and stretched, thought about getting up, then relaxed back. “I suppose birds, the reason they don’t get sad, it’s different biology. When you get right down to it, if you’re going strictly by nature, shaggin’s just the start for them. Get knocked up, bring up the kid, lifetime’s hard slog. No time to prat about. Get ’em in the club, a fella’s job’s done. Fifteen minutes kip, on to the next one. Not much to get sad about, is it? So why d’you think it is, then?”

Bodie shook his head. “I suppose...it’s because it’s the best pleasure you ever get—then when you come, it’s over, and...if that’s the best it ever gets...”

“Mmm.” Doyle pondered this for a moment. “Not half as sad as not getting it, though. Like doin’ the ton on the bike, magic, but you’ve got to slow down and stop in the end.”

“Have to try and dazzle the nice kind policeman with our fine print, don’t we?”

“You still harping on about that?”

“Not likely to forget that night in a hurry.”

“Was good, yeh.” Again Doyle’s white, uneven teeth flashed in a reminiscent grin. “Don’t remember feeling sad after that.”

“Unconscious, you were! Fifteen minutes? More like fifteen hours. Didn’t try to stop you going to sleep, did I?”

“You’d’ve had your work cut out. Didn’t tidy up and bring me a cup of tea, I noticed.”

“Had to tidy myself up. Christ...Didn’t get any afterglow either. There I was feeling like I’d backed into a perishing guided missile and you were snoring your bloody head off!”

“Feelin’ me oats,” Doyle said smugly. “Made you sad, did it?”

“Not quite the word I’d have chosen, no.” Bodie sat up. “Take it you’d fancy a cuppa if anyone was mug enough to make it?”

“Not ’alf.” Again Doyle stretched and relaxed luxuriously. “Might see about letting you get your own back for after the bike run.”

“Been reading _How to Win Friends and Influence People,_ have you?”

“Something in the fridge for you,” Doyle called after him.

He shut his eyes and drifted on a cloud of fragmented memories and fantasies and anticipations, falling into a light doze, rudely disrupted by a damp towel tossed onto his belly. He took the hint and cleaned off the remnants of their first encounter, watching indulgently while Bodie clowned his way through the extraction of the belated Easter egg from its elaborate packaging. “Great big soft kid, you are.”

“Kid, no. Big, yes. Great, certainly.” Bodie offered a strawberry cream, evincing no regret at its refusal. “Soft—not for long, mate, not once I’ve got a bit of chocolate in my blood.”

“Start mainlining it, why don’t you?” Doyle sipped tea, psyching himself up to be screwed.

Not that he didn’t want it, but it was difficult to maintain his careful façade of detached affection in the throes of that intensely intimate, multi-faceted pleasure. And perhaps it was time to risk it, anyway. The constant prospect of violent death seemed to matter more these days: it seemed worth the gamble of looking like a sentimental prat.

Hostage to fortune, he thought wryly. Involvement. Classic mistake. Sorry, Mr Cowley, my body’s been getting up to all kinds of unauthorised activities that would give you apoplexy, and now I’ll have my soul back, please.

_Bloody hooked, aren’t I? Grand passion? More like getting home_ _..._

_Hooked on Bodie._

Bodie, so accomplished a bedmate, so practised in evading commitment: Doyle had realised from the first that Bodie could devastate him emotionally.

_Time to stop hedging and being temporary. If I lose the gamble_ _..._ _then I lose. Cut my losses and—cut my heart out._

“Don’t get chocolate all over the sheets,” he said sternly and went to the bathroom. When he returned Bodie drew him down, pushed him back against the pillows, and tried to smother him with Cadbury-flavoured kisses. The chocolate was far too sweet for his taste, but Bodie wasn’t. “Don’t get that all over me, either!”

“I’ll lick it off,” Bodie promised.

“None there,” Doyle teased. “Nor there...”

“Have to make sure, sunshine. It’s Whitsun, you know. Tongues of fire.”

Christ, Bodie’s mouth, _Bodie’s_ mouth, velvet fire tongue on the soft skin of his inner thighs, wet fire engulfing his balls, tantalising his blood-engorged prick, sipping the drops that oozed from the tiny slit. He trembled with the reflexive urge to seize the initiative but forced himself to utter surrender.

Giving up control, however briefly, to another man: it went deeply against all his ingrained and acquired instincts. He knew that Bodie could overpower him if determined, and the uneasy excitement of being penetrated was always intimately entwined with the potential need to defend himself physically; defending mind and heart was something else again.

He let himself be rolled over, relaxing under the slow, careful invasion of Bodie’s knowing fingers, gel-slippery, whispering past resistance to the sparking pleasure that chopped his breath into gasps and shameless whimpers, but he writhed away when he felt Bodie start to urge him to his knees, turning onto his back again. This time he would see Bodie’s face, and if his own betrayed too much—then let it.

“Sure about this, Ray?” Bodie was disconcerted. “Can be the devil with your back muscles, and tomorrow—”

“Come on, mate,” Doyle urged him, smiling with feigned insouciance. “Unless you don’t fancy it.”

“I fancy it, all right.” Bodie’s powerful body seemed to thrum with restrained urgency as he accepted Doyle’s decision. “Bend your knees up, okay?” He grabbed a pillow and slid it under Doyle’s hips. “Give you a bit more support...christ, Ray...tell me if you—”

“I’ll squawk me flippin’ ’ead off if you breathe on me too hard, don’t you worry.”

“Get your legs over my shoulders, so I can—” Sure hands helped him into place, and Doyle draped his arms round Bodie’s neck, hands flat against the flexing shoulder muscles, willing himself into relaxing, accepting...

Hot and hard, enormous-seeming, Bodie’s cock nudged the tight muscle ring, seeping fluid mingling with the lube to ease the penetration. Bodie demanded no further verbal reassurances, but the deep blueness of his eyes was almost lost in the darkened intensity of his focus on Doyle’s face, alert for distress, self-controlled, so incredibly controlled! _Too controlled._ Doyle shoved up against him, urging pain and bliss into his body, and saw Bodie’s teeth clench, heard the desperate hissing of his breath.

“Keep still a minute!” Bodie choked out.

“Let me get my legs down a bit.” Doyle shifted, impaled, engulfing, possessed, possessing, his supple body moulding to his partner’s, and Bodie was dizzy with the pleasure of it, drunk on the embrace of Doyle’s arms and legs, the warmth of Doyle’s lean body beneath him, the urgent thrust of Doyle’s cock upwards against him, the dark ripples of heat that caressed his own shaft, the gratifyingly demented sounds of joy he ripped from the throat of this man he—

 

_The best pleasure you ever get._ Bodie lay motionless, dazed, feeling with poignant regret his flaccid cock disengage from the sweet clutch of Doyle’s body. _Best pleasure, then when you come, it’s over, and__...___

Doyle’s eyes were shut. Even as the embrace of his long legs relaxed, that of his arms tightened. “Bodie...” It was scarcely more than a breath.

_The best it’s ever been!_ Bodie wanted to say, but was afraid of the admission. If he could just stay like this for a little while, sprawled over Doyle’s warmth, relishing the wetness sticky between them, reassuring proof that Doyle had been swept into satiety, not needing to think...If Doyle would say...

“You’re gettin’ bloody good at that, mate,” Doyle said eventually, his voice husky.

“Always been good at it.” Bodie shifted up onto one elbow, smirked down at him in complacent exhaustion. “You’re learning to appreciate it, that’s all.”

Doyle ruffled his hair. “Conceited great pillock you are.”

Bodie shivered slightly as fingertips lingered for a moment on the back of his neck. Doyle’s eyes and mouth were fleetingly touched with the vulnerability that always vanished before Bodie could do more than glimpse it.

“See what I can do for you next time, now I know what I’m aimin’ for.” Doyle’s smile was deliberately lecherous, unwittingly tender.

“Optimistic, aren’t you?” Bodie ducked his head and rested his lips against the hollow of Doyle’s throat, licking at the salty sting of undried sweat. “Just pay attention to the expert and you’ll get the hang of it soon.” Doyle cuffed the side of his head lightly, hugged him, pulled him down to rest with all his weight. Bodie shut his eyes, mind blanking into sheer peace, dozing dreamless.

Then Doyle pushed at his chest. “Gerroff, you’re squashin’ me. All that chocolate’s put half a stone on you!” Bodie reluctantly shifted his weight to the side and Doyle heaved himself up to grab for tissues. “Mucky, this.” He mopped strategically. “You could do with a clean-up, too. What happened to that towel?” He retrieved it from the floor.

“God, Ray—”

Bodie submitted for a few moments, then grabbed the towel from Doyle’s hand and threw it back on the floor. “Just keep still for a minute, will you?” He pulled Doyle into a bear-hug embrace, stifling his protests with kisses until Doyle found the ticklish spot on his side and effected release, then, relenting, let Bodie slide an arm beneath him. He napped contentedly until Bodie woke from his own snooze with cramp in his arm, and jolted them both violently back to awareness.

“And I’m about ready for something to eat,” Doyle announced when he had finished grumbling about being so abruptly disturbed. “Suppose you’ve guzzled so much chocolate you won’t be wanting anything else.”

“Couldn’t manage more than a couple of pizzas, or double plaice and chips, or—”

“If you want any of that you’ll have to fetch it,” Doyle told him.

“There’s sod-all in your fridge. I drank most of the milk, too. When did you get the Easter egg?”

“Weeks ago. I thought—well, wasn’t reckoning with the IRA, was I? Thought we’d—” Doyle reached for more tissues. “Sort us out some food, then. I’m having a bath. There’s muesli if you don’t want to be bothered.”

“Let me get to the bathroom first, and I’ll bother. Man could starve to death in this place. Muesli!”

“I could go for extra chips too,” Doyle confessed. “Seem to’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

“Have you eating hot dogs in no time,” Bodie prophesied cheerfully.

 

Later they returned to bed, replete with fish and chips and Glenlivet. Doyle had swiped the last remaining fragment of the Easter egg on principle during a moment Bodie was off his guard. Bodie had sucked the final taste of over-sweet chocolate from his mouth, but they were too weary for anything more.

All right, then, Doyle decided. Whitsun, so let’s have a bash at that understanding lark. Keep it casual. See if he makes anything of it this time.

“G’night, love,” he yawned.

_“G’night, love.”_ That first time Doyle had muttered it drowsily Bodie had been in such a state of dazed exhaustion he had hardly noticed. Only since the night of Stacey’s Thanksgiving party had he started to be aware of it again. He had found himself thinking about it while he and Doyle had been apart, and though habitual caution told him to leave well enough alone he heard himself reply: “Don’t know what you mean when you say that.”

“Hmm? Means shut up and put the light off and go to sleep, you pillock.” Doyle felt a tremor of apprehension.

“No—” Bodie pulled in a deep breath, “the other. When you call me—that.”

“Pillock?” Doyle laid his forearm across his eyes, ostensibly to block the light of the bedside lamp.

It took Bodie several tries to push the word out: “Love.”

“What do you think?” Doyle responded neutrally after a moment, relishing the syllable even though it was not declaratory.

“Well...one of those words, isn’t it? People call you that all the time.” He thought of the woman at the off-license, the teenage girl.

“Mmm.” Doyle considered for a moment. “I don’t call you that _all_ the time, do I? Pillock, now.”

“Ray...” Bodie was wishing he’d kept quiet.

“Won’t call you love if you don’t like it,” Doyle said agreeably. “Now put that bloody light off and let’s get some kip. G’night, pillock.” He turned onto his side, facing away as he always did for the night’s sleep, and pulled the duvet snugly up to his chin.

“No, I—” Bodie lay listening for Doyle’s breathing to settle into its sleep rhythm. “Ray—?”

Silence.

“Ray? Listen, will you?”

“Fuck sake, Bodie, go to sleep!”

“Ray, I think I...” _Just another four-letter word. I kiss you, I suck you, I fuck you, I—_

After a few moments of expectant silence, Doyle said: “Well, let me know if you find out, won’t you! Meantime put that soddin’ light out and let’s get some shut-eye.”

Bodie turned off the lamp and lay back in the darkness.

“Ray?”

“Now what? There’s no more Easter eggs.”

“Just—come here, will you? Let me—”

“What?”

“Let me—” God, why is it so difficult to get the words out? “Bit of a cuddle, all right?”

“Don’t you ever let up? Look what happened before!”

“Wasn’t positioned right. Come on, Ray. Please?”

With an exaggerated display of resignation Doyle heaved himself over, letting himself be manoeuvred until he lay with his head tucked under Bodie’s chin, pliant in the circle of his arms. “Never get to sleep like this, y’know. Ten minutes, if you’re lucky. And when your circulation stops,” continued the muffled complaint, “just slide me off gently, will you? Don’t go flinging me halfway across the room again.”

“Shut up and go to sleep, pillock.” Bodie tightened his arms momentarily, relishing Doyle’s lithe warmth.

Doyle grunted, then relaxed into silence.

Bodie inhaled the clean smell of the tangled curls. _Sort it out when all this with Macklin is over, if the Cow hasn’t fed us to the piranhas first._ When Doyle seemed asleep, but might not be completely oblivious, Bodie gathered up his soul, cast it into the tongues of flame, and murmured, “Good night, Ray...love.”

Doyle smiled blissfully in the darkness.

 

 

**Lover's Just a Five Letter Word**

 

Bodie dropped his bag inside Doyle’s front door, headed for the sofa and collapsed. “Wake me up when Gabriel gets to the horn solo.”

Doyle set the locks and limped wearily in. “You dead, then?” He sat on the coffee table and rubbed his thigh.

“Got your edge back, have you? Feel proper blunted meself.”

“Know three new ways to cripple someone. Handy at weddings and funerals.” Doyle tugged up the leg of his jeans and glowered at a green and purple bruise. “Look at that; how’m I supposed to keep Queen and country safe if I can’t even bloody walk?”

“Got my own to look at, ta very much. Only remember two ways.”

“Need to get cosy with Towser, old son,” Doyle smirked.

“Towser? Come off it!”

“Did ’im a favour, cousin’s kid, drug thing. Fella I used to work with in the Drugs Squad sorted things out a bit.”

“So now he gives you Macklin’s secrets?” Bodie quirked an eyebrow.

“Knows stuff Macklin never dreamed of. Got his own problems with Macklin, our Towser. Showed me that sideways thing last time.”

“Yeah? Got Macklin with it this time, didn’t you.” Bodie chuckled with satisfaction. “Pissed him off proper.”

“I know.” Doyle massaged his shoulder ruefully. “Worth it, just seeing his face. You reckon he pays the Cow for the privilege of beating us up? Gets off on it?”

“Package deal? Or different rates depending what turns him on most?”

“Pays by the damage. Fifty quid for a bruise; hundred for a black eye; thousand for a cracked rib. Cow must be rolling in it. Wonder if he fiddles the VAT—we could threaten to shop him if we don’t get our expense chits signed.”

“Couldn’t we just pay direct next time? Save up a bit? Be worth it.”

“Years to save that much.” Doyle prodded cautiously at his upper thigh. “Nearly got me wedding tackle, too.”

“Probably couldn’t afford that. Five thousand, easy.”

“Yer what?” Doyle looked affronted.

“Five million,” Bodie amended hastily. “Fifty years North Sea oil.”

“Don’t even get a cut, do I?” Doyle muttered sadly. “Nothing for me old age. Bloody ponce takes all me immoral earnings and squanders ’em on malt.”

“Justify the Cow’s ways to man—any of that Glenlivet left?”

“Thinking of a cup of tea,” Doyle responded. “If the milk’s not gone off.”

“Both.”

“Suppose you think I’m fetching it. Idle sod.” He kicked the leg of the sofa.

Bodie absorbed the jolt and closed his eyes. “Dead, aren’t I? Fancy a little necrophilia?”

“Fancy lobbing a grenade though Macklin’s window.” Doyle heaved himself to his feet with a martyred sigh. “Necrophile him. Fetch us Chinese from the good one after?”

“Don’t they deliver yet? Yeah, all right. Usual?”

Doyle nodded, indifferent, rubbing at a bruise on his side. “Reckon the Old Man’s got another op like Parsali up his jumper?”

They hadn’t speculated much about the purpose of this intensive refresher. Surviving Macklin and Towser had sopped up every spark of energy.

Bodie, half asleep, listened to the sounds of Doyle moving about the flat—kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. _Bedroom._ He’d never kissed or held Doyle outside the safe context of sex.

The aches of various muscles subsided with consciousness and he enjoyed the images of Doyle that moved behind his closed eyelids. Cessation of pain was almost euphoric, and contemplation of pleasure no longer seemed unreasonable.

Pleasure...Contentment to which Bodie had gradually become addicted without realising, when their exhausted bodies fell towards sleep and Ray was safe beside him for hours yet. Last time he had found himself fighting to stay awake, just to savour the peaceful warmth of Ray suddenly amenable to sleeping within the curve of his arm, head burrowed against Bodie’s shoulder, sinewy arm across Bodie’s chest. Last time...

“Tea’s mashed.”

Doyle’s voice startled him, and he reluctantly pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes, wincing as myriad twinges assaulted him. Doyle set down a tray holding tea things, aspirin tablets, the bottle of Glenlivet, two glasses, and “Ahh, lovely!” Bodie snatched at the packet of chocolate biscuits. “Where’d these come from?”

“Sainsbury’s. Hid ’em a few weeks ago before you did your usual plague of locusts trick. Forgot they were there.” Doyle sank down beside him, groaning softly. “Christ, I ache!” He had stripped down to his jeans and smelled faintly of soap. He propped his bare feet on the table and kneaded a bruise on his ribs.

Bodie poured tea, added Glenlivet.

“Can just see Cowley’s face,” Doyle commented dis-passionately.

“You still off sugar?”

Doyle considered, weighing conviction against inclination. “Sod it,” was his reasoned conclusion. “Eat, drink, and...sugar, whisky, bung it all in.”

Bodie stirred in sugar, gave a mug to Doyle, swallowed aspirin, and leaned back against the cushions, taking a handful of biscuits with him.

Magic stuff, chocolate, he thought, crunching happily. Housman should have worked it in somewhere. _Loveliest of tastes, the chocolate now__..._Something weird he had read about chocolate sparking off the same chemistry as being in love—no, that couldn’t be right! But with experimental self-sacrifice he aimed the last little oblong of ecstasy in the direction of Doyle’s mouth and was rewarded by the brush of lips and teeth against his fingers.

Doyle laughed. “American bird once, said they had these chocolates called Kisses over there. Right up your alley.” He finished his tea with a noisy gulp. The deep lines of fatigue that scored his face were starting to ease. “Not bad, that.”

“Tonight, Ray?” Bodie touched his lips to Doyle’s shoulder, inhaling warm-Ray-skin scent. _For tomorrow__...___

“Might not get any more entertainment than me snorin’.” Doyle ran a fingertip over the nape of Bodie’s neck, rousing a shiver of response. “Not much good to you.”

“Like you snoring. Sleep better with you there.”

“Yeh?” Doyle withdrew slightly, looking at Bodie with speculative eyes.

Bodie laid a finger lightly against Doyle’s uneven cheekbone. “Get a kiss while you’re still awake?” He drew his finger down the line of Doyle’s jaw, half-expecting him to shy away, but Doyle continued to look at him, unresponsive, frowning slightly as though trying to reach a decision.

_Last time_ _..._ _christ, the way he looked at me last time, giving it all up to me_ _..._ _Got to see that one more time_ _..._

Bodie shrugged and took his hand away. Gambled. “Can’t get a kiss then? Bloody awkward lover, you are. Think I’ll have a shower before I fetch the Chinese.”

He started to get up, but Doyle caught his arm in a strong-fingered grasp. “Lover?”

“Aren’t you?” Bodie tensed for conflict.

“What’s lover mean, Bodie?” Doyle’s voice was hard and flat.

“You know what it means.” Words nagged in his mind, more than he was ready to say.

“Someone you screw?”

Bodie’s mouth was suddenly dry. “More than that, Ray...”

Doyle stared back at him, then twitched a brief smile. “Better kiss you, then.”

He leaned close and covered Bodie’s mouth with his own, rather tentatively. Bodie held him, not trying to deepen the kiss, and tugged him into a shared full-length sprawl, precarious in the narrow space, expecting to be resisted, astonished by sudden receptive relaxation. It could be the effect of the past week’s enforced celibacy, but Bodie made a note to try the chocolate-Glenlivet-tea-aspirin combination again.

Not easy, being Doyle’s lover, whatever that meant. A little voodoo was fair enough. He needed all the edge he could get.

Doyle gently turned away from the kiss, resting his face against Bodie’s shoulder, breath warm against Bodie’s throat. Bodie moved a hand to ruffle chest hair, relishing the strong heartbeat, and teased a small brown nipple. Doyle made a deep sound of pleasure that vibrated in his chest and through Bodie’s caressing fingers.

Instant turn-on, and Bodie was vaguely disconcerted to feel no urgency. For now it was enough, he thought, truly enough, to have Ray in his arms again. The rest would keep, all the sweeter for delay.

_Not too much delay, though. Not too much_ _..._

 

_Now of my threescore years and ten_

_Twenty will not come again_ _..._

 

_Bad medicine_ _..._ _Bloody Housman._

Last time, holding Ray, he had risked that one verbal caress, but it had gone unheard. Tonight, when he could hide in darkness if he was wrong, perhaps he could say more while Ray was still awake; for now, he told himself, keep it light, just to be safe. Never could tell what might spook him.

_Thirty-odd won’t come again_ _..._

He brushed fingertips over the livid bruises on Doyle’s ribs. “Macklin must fancy you rotten, what this lot adds up to. Fifty for a bruise, was it?” He caressed the nipple again.

Doyle said nothing for a moment, then, “Know if his hair’s that colour all over?”

“He’s a natural blond, yeah.”

“Hung?” His hand moved over Bodie’s hair, stroked his cheek and neck. Gentle, like a lover...

“Average. Well, only seen him in the showers, not up. What’s it to you, then?”

“You said he fancies me. Take an interest in me suitors, only natural.”

Bodie moved his hand down to cup the warm bulk at Doyle’s crotch, working at the zip. “Fantasies to be cleared with me first, sunshine. Security.”

“What, all of ’em?” Doyle started to undo Bodie’s shirt, fingers circling and stroking.

“How many’ve you got?” Bodie’s other hand twined in Doyle’s hair, pulling his head back to search the darkening eyes.

“Well...lot of birds around, aren’t there,” Doyle teased.

“Do what you like about that,” Bodie said with mock generosity. “Only not while I’m doing _you._ What about blokes, then?” He freed pulsing warmth from its denim prison. “Fancy Macklin, do we?”

“You started me thinking about him.” Doyle’s voice was husky. “All-over blond, eh? Be rough, you reckon?”

“Helium heels.” Bodie dug the phrase from some recess of his memory.

“What? Oh...” Doyle snickered. “Remember that next time he’s bashing the daylights out of me.” He arched against Bodie’s hand. “Fuck you, Macklin!”

“He’d have you any way he wanted,” Bodie suggested, wondering what he could get away with, curious how far into the fantasy Doyle would venture, what he might reveal. No reason Doyle shouldn’t be wanting to make up for lost time now he’d discovered the pleasures of his own sex. Dangerous curiosity, like prodding at a tooth after the first ominous twinge.

His fingers encircled, his thumb smoothed hot moist satin. “Carry you off to his lair and ravish you for days. Have to drag you out by the hair. Then kill him. Want to watch?”

“Oh, I’d do that meself. Eventually.” Doyle squirmed under his touch, eyes half-closed, wanton. “_You_ want to watch?”

“Die with a smile on his face, would he?” Bodie gave an expert squeeze, bending his head to kiss the hollow of Doyle’s throat, suddenly lost in memory of that last night.

Making love to Ray.

Making love with Ray.

Loving Ray: the terrified, exalted realisation had precipitated him into the final frenzy, clinging to the edges of sanity while he could still stare into those storm-green eyes, until Ray’s face contorted in climax, eyes clamped shut, teeth bared, throat filled with an ungodly blend of sob and growl and scream that managed to shape the sound of _Bodie._

Later, in darkness, he had listened to Ray’s breath settling into the pattern of sleep, cravenly relieved, perversely disappointed to receive no response to his whispered endearment, wondering if he would dare repeat it. _My partner—my lover. Ray, my lover._

Lover: yes, the word was ambiguous. Could mean someone you screwed. Could mean your whole life. Threescore and ten if you were lucky and didn’t have to go kicking Death in the goolies every five minutes.

Doyle said dreamily, “Thought he was blond.”

“What?” Bodie pressed against the warm solidity of Doyle’s thigh, jarred out of reverie.

“Hair’s gone all short and dark.” Doyle cupped a hand around the back of Bodie’s head. “Used to be taller. Give us a proper kiss, Brian.”

“Brian doesn’t live here any more.” Bodie resisted the urging hand, resenting the fantasy he had unwarily conjured. _Jealousy, cruel as the grave._

“Oh.” Doyle’s fingertips stroked the back of Bodie’s neck. “Not getting carried off and laired, then?”

“Settle for staying put and getting laid?” Bodie’s free hand worked into the back of Doyle’s jeans, cupping, sliding, fingertip tantalising.

Doyle shuddered and murmured: “Bed, yeah? Fall off here. No skin left for any more bruises.” He pulled Bodie’s head down and Bodie drank the intoxicating mingled flavours of tea and chocolate and Glenlivet and Ray Doyle.

“Want me to carry you off to _my_ lair?”

“Rip your arms off.” Doyle wriggled against the teasing finger. “And don’t even think about hair-draggin’!”

“Romance is dead.” Bodie set aside that challenge for future trial and coaxed moisture with a practised thumb tip. Doyle flexed his legs, curled his toes, clutched, panted. Bodie regarded these symptoms with satisfaction and asked sweetly: “Any biscuits left?”

Doyle writhed between Bodie’s hands and gasped: “Saving ’em for my Brian, aren’t I?”

“That’s it!” Bodie pulled away and sat up, tipping Doyle into a delectable half-naked denim-tangled sprawl. “Sadistic sod’s beaten me to a pulp, stolen my lover, and now he’s after me biccies.”

_My lover._

“Yeah?” Doyle stretched luxuriously, arms trying to recapture Bodie, who stood up, out of reach. “So whatcha gonna do about it?” His swollen cock pulsed with blood, echoing the question.

“Have a shower and then fuck you rigid,” Bodie told him. “Did you switch the immersion heater on?”

“Don’t remember.” Doyle blinked. “What about our Chinese, then?”

Bodie glared at him. “Later if you’re lucky,” bent and kissed him possessively, almost brutally, and stalked away to the bathroom with rather less than his usual smoothness of gait.

Doyle stretched out on the sofa, fingers idly consoling what Bodie had aroused and abandoned. He ran the tip of his tongue reminiscently over his lower lip, still feeling the hard pressure of his lover’s mouth.

_My lover._ Spoken.

Bodie had crashed through the barriers so carefully maintained for years and left him sex-shocked. Love-shocked. These last months had been both oddly unreal and more intensely real than anything in his life. He was still astonished by the pleasure Bodie gave him, the pleasure he could return, pleasure that seemed sweeter every time.

He supposed he could find those pleasures with other men than Bodie if he wanted to. Sexual responses were pretty basic, after all, and now he had accepted the desires that had haunted him for years there seemed no reason he should not feast at the banquet he had rejected so long.

If he wanted to.

Macklin...Well, teasing Bodie was one thing. He really didn’t fancy Macklin. _Fuck you, Macklin. Fuck you._

Words that had always been the familiar currency of obscene insult were suddenly laden with promises of erotic delight.

He’d been parading other men through his mind almost from the start, deliberately considering them through the erotic focus he had rejected for so long, trying to gauge his own responses, and had fatalistically accepted that the generalised lust the visions provoked was all overlaid by the persistent image of Bodie.

He wanted the pleasure with Bodie.

He wanted love with Bodie, the way it had been that last night they had spent together.

Pleasure? Oh yes, no argument there: sheer bloody ecstasy that pierced him and shattered him. But it was the almost unbearable contentment afterwards that he wanted more—Bodie’s arms that he trusted to hold him, the one man whose acknowledged strength no longer had to be perceived as a perpetual implicit challenge, Bodie’s whispered “Ray-love” heard on the edge of sleep. Should have had the guts to let him know he had been heard, made him say it out loud, told him...

_Time to claim him. Make all things plain._

“Water’s only lukewarm.” Bodie reappeared, loomed over him. “Stop that, you randy toad—be growing hair on your eyeballs in a minute!”

“Time to fuck _you,_ then?” Doyle extended an exploratory hand. “While the water gets hot?”

“That how you sweet-talk your birds?” Bodie’s eyes opened wide as sensation jolted through him.

“Birds ask me nicely. Don’t just up and say they’ll fuck me rigid. Not usually. Not with a bird, am I?” His fingers confirmed it beyond doubt.

“No, you’re bloody not! Hang about— Not sure I can stand up if you’re going to—”

“Losing your edge again, eh?”

Doyle hooked his hand round Bodie’s thigh and used him as a support to pull himself to his feet, planting a fast kiss on the bulging crotch en route. He wrapped himself around the rest of Bodie, heedless of bruises, and claimed his mouth, rubbing against him lasciviously. “Got me own lair, sunshine. Get movin’!” Backed him towards the bedroom, jeans working their way down his legs, helped by Bodie’s hands, until he stumbled out of them and tipped them both onto the bed.

“More clothes than a bloody Victorian virgin,” he complained, tugging, stripping, tossing garments away, retrieving KY from the bedside table.

“Somebody’s got to.” Bodie wrestled for the lube and grabbed it. “If you think you’re—christ!” He flinched at the unfamiliar hold Doyle had suddenly clamped on his wrist and elbow. He tested and grunted with discomfort. “Shit! How d’you do that? Where’d you pick that one up?”

“Towser. Mysterious secrets of the ancient East End. Lethal, sunshine; don’t pull or you won’t use that arm for a month.” Doyle grinned at him. “Good, yeh? Try it on Macklin next time. Ready for me now or shall I practise it a bit more?”

“Horrible thug you are.” Bodie tested again. Nerves threatened agony. “Ow! That’s vicious, Ray!” He slapped the mattress with his free hand, accepting defeat.

“Drop it, then.” Bodie let the tube fall. Doyle released the hold and shoved him flat.

“Very assertive all a sudden, 4.5!” Bodie wrapped him in his arms, hoping to take control. “Better let me...”

_Don’t let me_ _..._

“Didn’t think you were going to get away it with it much longer, did you?” Doyle extricated a wiry forearm from its temporary captivity and laid it across Bodie’s throat. “Chucking me into bed with Macklin! Carrying me off to low-class lairs! Taking me for granted any time you fancy a bit of the other! Sodding cheek! Know what to do with you now, don’t I?” His teeth grazed Bodie’s earlobe.

“Hope you do. Get that bloody arm off my windpipe for a start! I’m breakable, you know.”

Doyle snorted with laughter. “Like a sledgehammer, yeah. Loved it last time, didn’t you!”

Bodie grimaced, conceding the truth. “Sure you remember how? Been a while.”

“Not that long.” Doyle tongue flicked at Bodie’s mouth.

“Engraved on your heart, is it?” Bodie relaxed beneath his weight, spreading his legs so Doyle lay between them, hardness against hardness.

“Logged it in your personnel file. Strictly need to know. Like where the biscuits are.” Doyle licked Bodie’s right nipple.

“Where?” Bodie caught his breath with sensation.

“Give you one later if you’re good.” Doyle swept a trail of wet warmth across his chest.

“They warned me about men like you, always promising sex and then fobbing you off with biscuits and sweets.”

“Still fall for it, don’t you? Might even get sex this time if you play your cards right.”

Doyle’s fingers worked their way beneath him, slid into the deep cleft. Bodie squirmed with uneasy response. He’d always been skittish about this, but...

_It’s different with Ray_ _..._

“Go on, then,” he conceded, “but later I’m...”

“Lovely, if you can still do anything about it,” Doyle agreed breathlessly, engulfing him. “Lucky if you can move, time I’m done with you. Won’t be thinking about me screwing other fellas, will you? Or birds? Just you ’n’ me, right?”

Bodie threaded his fingers through thick curls. “Just you and me.”

“And chocolate, right?” Nothing tentative about Doyle’s kisses now.

“Kisses—sweeter than—chocolate—”

He surrendered with sudden intense happiness to Doyle’s increasingly relentless attentions. _Different with my lover__...__my lover__..._

“Ahhh...and you said romance was dead! Hold still for me, then, gorgeous.”

Doyle’s hands, tongue, teeth, lips wove tapestries of fiery enchantment. The silky trail of his hair was an almost unbearable echo of his mouth. He murmured soothing nonsense as his gel-slicked fingers teased, penetrated, slowly drove Bodie towards a surrender that would change them forever.

“Ray!” He sucked in a breath to speak the words.

Doyle shifted to stare into his eyes. “Want me inside, do you?”

“Oh god...yes...it feels...you know...?”

“Course I know, you berk! Made me love it, didn’t you? You manage this way? Like to see your face.”

“Not just...not just the fucking, Ray?”

Doyle kissed Bodie’s eyes. “I’m your lover, means I love you, all right?”

“Do you?” Bodie could only manage a choked whisper.

The sinewy body moved insistently—“love you”—pinning him—“love you”—hands spreading and lifting him—“love you”—slippery silk-clad steel impaling him—“love you”—sweet pain shocking, sweet pleasure claiming, loving...

_Means I love you._

“Ray-love....” He slowly drifted back to the reality of the man who lay sweat-slick in his arms, sucking in harsh gulps of air.

Doyle raised his head, pushed up on his elbow. Green eyes held Bodie transfixed. “You my lover, then?” Everything offered. Everything demanded. Steel and silk waited to bind, to be bound. Never be easy, but...“You love me, Bodie?” Steel-hard fingers grabbed and twined with Bodie’s fingers. Silk-soft lips touched Bodie’s lips. “You want to be my lover, Bodie?”

“Christ, what do you think!”

“Tell me, then!” Doyle’s voice was relentless. Had to know it in words, not just from those orgasm-drenched blue eyes.

_From this day forward__..._“All right, then, I love you, you horrible thug!”

“Should bloody well think so an’ all.” Doyle collapsed back down on top of him, sighing out a deep, exhausted breath, eyes closing, burying his face against Bodie’s neck. “Like pulling teeth out. Like getting expense chits signed. Like—”

“All right, all right! Just because I show a bit of decent reticence! Give you back to Macklin in a minute.”

“Mind me bruises,” Doyle muttered. “Show you that...arm hold...biscuits behind...bike manuals...don’t let the...hot...water...waste...”

Hot water would have to be wasted. Bodie had no strength or desire to move from beneath the warm weight of his suddenly sleeping lover, even for the chocolate biscuits with which he seemed to have been endowed.

He tightened cherishing arms around the relaxed body. _To have and to hold__...___

Safe for this moment.

 

 

**In the Pumpkin Interest**

 

“Load of Yank cobblers.” Bodie flicked the TV off and sprawled back against the pillows. “Speaking of which, what are you going as for Stacey’s Hallowe’en bash this year? Party-mad, that bird. Hallowe’en, Thanksgiving— I suppose when she goes back to America she’ll have ’em celebrating Guy Fawkes and the Queen’s birthday.”

“I’m on that arms dump obbo,” Doyle said gloomily, snuggling under the covers as if he already felt the impending chill. “Have to go on your own, won’t you?”

“No, I won’t.” Bodie looked pleased with himself. “Anson’s relieving you. Cleared it with the Cow and everything.”

“Anson? Does he know yet?”

“Volunteered,” Bodie said innocently. “Delighted to perform an act of simple kindness.”

Narrowed green eyes contemplated him distrustfully over the edge of the duvet. “I’ll find out, you know.”

“Course you will, pumpkin-fish. Think I’ll go as a vampire this year. Evening dress, set of those pointy teeth, tasteful trickle of blood down the chin.”

“All over that frilly shirt? Need a cloak, too. Why do vampires ponce about in all that get-up anyway?”

“Well, can you see Dracula in pinstripes and a bowler?”

“Definitely. The Old Vampire of Threadneedle Street, Bank of England to a T. All right, you go as a vampire and I’ll be your intended victim, very kinky. Wear a garlic g-string. You can bite me when they judge the costumes, and I’ll whip a set of fangs into me cakehole and—”

“Might not want to turn you into one of the clan, mate,” Bodie objected. “Just have you for elevenses till you’re empty, then get you refilled at the blood bank. Can’t all be vampires, can we? Very fussy who we let in the crypt.”

“If you bite me, you vamp me, or you’ll be vampiring with vacant gums, me old Fledermaus. How fast does it work? Maybe I ought to do a quick change into posh clothes too so they’ll know.”

“Just go as a stripper and have done with it: feathers and sequins, couple of twirling tassels. Well, three. If they stick money down your drawers we can—”

“_We?_ Planning to live off my immoral earnings, are you? Anyway, with my luck they’d load me down with pennies. Could say I was a cut-price Zeus, being a shower of copper. Want to be Leda?”

“That was the swan one, you prat. Anyway, I want to be a _vampire._ Might take it up full time. You could too after I bite you.”

“Tell Cowley we can’t cross running water or go out days. Bats don’t need cars: think of the petrol economy. He’ll love it.”

“No need for meal breaks: suck a little blood, all set.”

Doyle’s lips curved in a wanton grin. “Rather suck...”

“Get chucked out of the vampires’ union, bolshie ideas like that!”

“Nah, we’d knock ’em undead with our brilliant innovations.”

“Have to get a king-size coffin.” Bodie pounced and wrestled Doyle onto his back. “Fancy getting impaled on my stake?”

“Medium rare, is it? Supposed to go through the heart, anyway.”

“You still got one? The Cow flogged mine to science years ago. See if I can reach it via the scenic route. Don’t mind a few fried onions and mushrooms along the way, do you?”

“Your lifelong dream, that: a fuck and a three course meal all in one go. The single solitary soddin’ poem you ever wrote me—”

“Always gets you going, doesn’t it?” Bodie took a deep breath.

“Don’t you bloody start— Mmmf—!!”

With a swiftness that would have brought tears of joy to Macklin’s eyes, Bodie had stuffed a fistful of duvet into the protesting mouth and was triumphantly chanting:

 

_“Ray and chips,_

_“Ray and beans,_

_“Ray and bacon_

_“And no jeans._

 

_“Ray and beer,_

_“Ray and malt;_

_“Ketchup, vinegar,_

_“And salt._

 

_“Ray and custard,_

_“Ray and cream,_

_“Raymond Swiss roll_

_“In my dream._

 

“See,” he concluded complacently with a final lascivious writhe, “always works. Wait till you hear _Ode to a Transport Caff—_won’t get it down for weeks.”

Doyle had worked free of the gag. “That’s just my gorge you feel risin’, you dumb crud.” He wrapped his arms round Bodie’s neck. “Go on, then, if it’ll shut you up. Know what, though—vampires can’t kiss in the sunlight either.”

“One smiling day, sweetheart. Steak-and-chips-heart.” Bodie offered an enthusiastic preview. “Who needs sunlight?”

“Yeah, well, be a good smiling vampire and give us a bit of a nibble first. And KY, not A-1 Sauce, thanks very much.”

“Or,” said Bodie a while later, stretching with drowsy satisfaction, “never mind vampire bats—what about Batman?”

“Hmm?” Doyle roused from a doze. “Aren’t we asleep yet? I’ll be him. You’ll have to be Robin. Really fancy you with bare legs in those kinky red ankle boots.”

“Me? You’re the one used to wear red shoes, mate. Looked like Dorothy when she’d just got chucked out of Oz. No wonder they shot you: probably expected you to start hurling boomerangs and koalas any minute.”

“Well, look at you, dark hair like Robin; pity to hide that incredibly handsome face with anything more than that little eye mask. I could pad out an all-over costume to look musclebound and the cowl thingie would hide most of me ugly mug. Elementary, my dear Bodie. And tell you what, we’ll let the Old Man be Alfred.”

“Let him be Robin. No trouble keeping anyone’s hands off the Cow in little green trunks. I’ll be Superman, won’t need a mask at all. Think Betty would like to be Lois Lane?”

“Kate Ross,” sighed Doyle, “as Catwoman. Here, know what I’ve been thinking?”

“Ignorance is bliss?” Bodie suggested optimistically.

“Listen, Blissful, what does Superman need all those muscles _for_? I mean, already got the strength, hasn’t he? Doesn’t need to overcome resistance. And the way he flies—reckon it must be a sort of controlled super-fart, like a jet engine up his arse. Like when you’ve been piggin’ down the baked beans.”

“Vulgar mind, sunshine,” Bodie said disapprovingly. “Anyway, you told me beans are healthy. So, vampire and victim, is it?”

“Think I’ll wear the pirate clobber,” Doyle decided. “Look much better in it than Anson did. Be the victim too, if you like. Dracula meets Long John Silver.”

“Remember the hat got all squashed when you made me walk the plank off the ironing board. If you hadn’t got so carried away with that perishing cutlass—”

“Not like you to get upset about a prick in the bum. Bit of a jolly roger, that was. Get another hat. Shame to waste the...”

Bodie smiled up at the ceiling with bland self-congratulation.

“You treacherous bastard!” Doyle accused. “You gave it back! Shouldn’t have left it at your place. Never liked it, did you?”

“If you hadn’t insisted on perching the damn thing on the wardrobe every time you wanted to be Peter Pan molesting Captain Hook— Might do something for your perverted exhibitionistic tendencies, a deceased parrot sizing up your wedding tackle, but it was starting to give me the—”

“Thought your rape and pillage technique was getting a bit half-hearted,” Doyle acknowledged.

“Well, kept feeling old Polly was knocking points off my score. Like figure skating.”

“Always thought she was cheerin’ _me_ on. Full marks.” Doyle looked smug. “Gave you the droopy willies, did she?”

“God, how did I ever get mixed up with you? Used to have all these nice refined birds.”

“Was a nice refined parrot. At least Anson should give me a return game for it. Shouldn’t have bet a borrowed parrot in the first place. Not really clothes, is it?”

“Don’t give me that. Had your eye on it from the start. Didn’t try to get Anson out of his frillies, did you?”

“Purely aesthetic. Anyway, take a man’s bird away, you have to be magnanimous. You can give ’im the hat back if it’s no good, but I’m keeping the cutlass and eye patch.”

“Actually Polly wasn’t all that refined.” Bodie grinned. “Anson’s auntie’s going to give him stick when he hands it over—got a nasty attack of moth.”

“Caught it off your bedspread.” Doyle looked slightly mollified. “All right, I’ll go as a priapismic monster. Here, how’s this?” He retrieved a sock from the untidy pile beside the bed and improvised a posing pouch.

“Hope that’s _your_ sock, sunshine. What are you supposed to be, then? A gents’ hosiery fetishist?”

“Fella with a twelve-inch prick.”

Bodie yawned. “Don’t get it.”

“You get it often enough, mate.” He lay back and squinted admiringly at his costume-in-progress. “Well, look, what do you _expect_ to find inside a sock?”

“A f— Oh, for pity’s sake, Ray!” Bodie plucked the black cotton handful away and dropped it onto Doyle’s face. “Put a sock in it and go to sleep.” He switched off the lamp.

“Reckon I’d win first prize, though?”

“Disqualified on a technicality.” Bodie intercepted the returning sock and immobilised Doyle with an enveloping hug. “Haven’t you heard? We’ve gone metric.”

 

 

**Honourable Intentions**

 

Carol had done a convincing job on the paternity suit notifications. She had let most of the female staff members in on it, so avid eyes were watching the opening of the envelopes in the VIP Lounge.

A handful of pristine consciences recognised the joke immediately. Several promiscuous others searched their puzzled memories before catching on. Some fingers were counted to a muttered reverse recital of months. Blind panic filled the faces of Lucas and McCabe and they beat a hasty retreat.

Doyle said firmly: “Sorry, love, I can’t marry you. Already engaged.”

Heads turned, some in genuine curiosity, others to see where Doyle would go with this one.

“Who to, you faithless swine?” Carol demanded, clutching at her heart with a dramatic eye-roll.

“Bodie, who d’you think?” Doyle’s tone stated the bleedin’ obvious.

“You know about this, Bodie?” Carol turned gleefully to watch Bodie’s reaction.

“Known for years.” Bodie sauntered over and flipped his copy of Carol’s document onto the table. Swiftly he cupped a hand under Doyle’s jaw and planted a brief kiss on his mouth. “So I’m out of the running too, but I’ll kick in support if the blood test checks out right.”

Vaguely disappointed that Doyle hadn’t clobbered Bodie, Carol decided to string it out a bit longer. “So when’s the happy day, then?”

Another barely patient statement of the obvious from Doyle: “Soon as the law changes.”

Cowley proclaimed from the doorway where he had been lurking: “Doyle, Bodie, I’ve got a job for you.” Then, in an attempt to go along with the gowk-hunting spirit, although he considered their jest in abysmal taste, he added: “And you know all such plans have to be cleared with me ahead of time.”

“Of course, sir,” Bodie agreed. “Only it seems a long way off. But if you’d consider this official notice of our honourable intentions—”

“And we hope you’ll be Best Man, sir,” Doyle added.

“What about me?” Murphy sounded faintly chagrined. “Worst Man, I suppose.”

“Aye, aye, very well, now enough of your nonsense,” Cowley chided them. “Report to me in the computer room in five minutes. And the rest of you—”

Recognising the familiar implied files-and-records threat, the tea- and coffee-drinkers hastily gulped and scattered.

“Let me know if you think of any use for a Matron of Honour,” Carol said, and drifted off to milk further agony from Lucas and McCabe.

“Amazing what people won’t believe if you just choose the right moment,” Bodie marvelled, pausing for a swift glance along the passage to ensure the coast was clear, then scooping Doyle close for a more leisurely kiss. “I’d say we’re technically in the clear with the Cow.”

“Worth trying if push comes to shove. Handy, that, Carol giving us such a good opening!” Doyle extricated himself, delivered an affectionate slap to Bodie’s rear, and started for the computer room. He grinned back over his shoulder. “See what they make of you wearin’ a diamond ring _next_ April First!”

 

 

**Raymond's Joy**

 

Doyle drifted slowly out of sleep, happy in the immediately remembered prospect of two days off. Sunlight filtering through the curtains promised at least a fine start.

He was tangled in the sheet, the only covering they’d wanted during this unusually warm spell, and in the sprawling press of Bodie against his back, a possessive arm wrapped around his chest, a leg trapping his own, steady breath puffing heat against his neck.

Deciding he didn’t want to disturb his partner just yet he began the familiar process of cautious extrication, slowly getting his feet onto the floor, stretching luxuriously, relishing the memory of last night’s pleasure and that yet to come.

And so to practicalities. His bladder twinged its imperative. His nose reminded him of the need for a shower. His mouth demanded toothpaste.

There in the bathroom was Bodie’s toothbrush beside his own. Bodie’s shaving gear. Bodie’s towel. And at Bodie’s flat was his own array of duplicates, though they spent far more time here, where Doyle could cook with everything he needed to hand.

They had fallen into a routine whereby Bodie brought in drink and Doyle supplied food, and the sadly depleted state of the refrigerator demanded attention. Bodie had devoured eggs and bacon when he had returned late last night, and he’d polished off the rest of the cheese and bread. Doyle swigged down the remains of a pint of milk to keep himself going and set off on the circuitous jog around the streets that would bring him to the local shops.

“Apples, milk, cheese,” he counted off to himself. “Bread. Eggs.”

He headed towards the small eclectic bakery he favoured. Wholemeal. A baguette. A couple of chocolate croissants for the human dustbin.

“Mr Doyle— Mr Doyle—” A small leathery man in shabby tweeds intercepted him.

“What’s up, Sammy? Here, what the hell happened to Lucky Lucy?”

“Sorry about that, Mr Doyle. Had a bit of a stumble at the off. Lost two quid there meself. But Roving Rascal did all right last week, didn’t he?”

“Better,” Doyle conceded. “What have you got today, then?”

“Perfect one for you, Mr Doyle—two o’clock at Goodwood, Raymond’s Joy and—”

“Come on, Sammy! He’s useless! Second place two years ago and sod all since.”

“No, I know, but listen, that time Miss Patty was riding him, and—”

“Who’s she, then?”

“It’s her dad’s horse, see. She had the training of him up till he started racing, then she went to Canada, and when she came back and rode him in that race at Kempton Park, that’s when he placed. And now she’s back again and she’s been working him and it’s like he’s a different horse when she’s on him, Mr Doyle. All of us lads are backing him to win today, and with a name like that—”

“Horrible name to land a horse with,” Doyle said idly, and immediately regretted it.

“Well, see, the sire was—”

“No, spare me the family tree.” Sammy was a useful informant but could ramble for hours on the subject of equine genealogy. “Thanks for the tip, Sammy. Best to Mavis and the kids.”

It suddenly struck him—two years ago. Doyle stood in bemusement for a moment, then continued his interrupted shopping expedition.

 

Bodie was still asleep. He’d pushed the sheet aside and sprawled naked in semi-rampant morning glory, the arm that had encircled Doyle earlier now shielding his eyes from the day.

Doyle struggled briefly with his conscience, then rationalising that art knew no boundaries he eased open a drawer and retrieved his sketchpad and pencil. Bodie was such an awkward sod about posing. Dark and beautiful was all very well, but the engaging modesty of which he boasted was sometimes all too true. Even fully clothed he grew restive after a few minutes. Had to catch him while he was concentrating on something else. Like fishing.

Doyle craved a better light. Perhaps if he drew the curtain back a little...and a little more...

Bodie remained oblivious.

Doyle worked for nearly half an hour until, perceiving signs that presaged returning consciousness in his unwitting subject, he concealed the evidence and went on the offensive.

“Bodie!” He sat on the edge of the bed and reinforced the summons with a slap to his still somnolent partner’s behind.

“Argg.” Bodie heaved in protest. “Piss off.” He groped for the sheet and dragged it over his head.

“Nine o’clock, mate.” Doyle hauled the sheet away.

“What?” Bodie squinted resentfully at the window. “What’s all that sunshine about? We still in England? What’s for breakfast?”

“Breakfast? You had enough supper to sink the Isle of Wight car ferry.”

“Burned it off keeping you happy last night. Very demanding, you older fellas. Let’s go and get some—”

“I’ve already been shopping.”

“Sausages?”

“You don’t need ’em.” Doyle tapped an admonishing finger on the side of Bodie’s waist. “Anyway, you’ll want to leave room for lunch.”

“All right, then, what’s on the menu?” Bodie asked suspiciously.

“Fancy a fishing trip?”

“What, back to the Soggy Ceiling Hotel to catch our own? What’s wrong with old Sid’s Fish-and-Chippery?”

“I just remembered while I was out, there’s a mate of mine with a house down at Hawley. He’s off in Spain with his bird for a month and we’re welcome to use it.”

Bodie blinked. “Bit sudden, but if the fishing’s good—”

“He says so. And it’s very secluded. Sunbathe in the nuddy.”

“Oh no.” Bodie was positive. “I know how that works. You just get settled and a dog runs off with your clothes while a gang of Girl Guides set up camp all round you.”

“Never know your luck, do you?” Doyle planted a swift kiss on his cheek. “All right, we’ll leave about ten. Couple of hours drive and have lunch at the Green Dragon there. They’ve got the keys.”

“And there’s another thing,” said Bodie pessimistically. “Turns out the bloke’s told his old Gran and her friends from the knitting club to treat the place as their own.”

“Well, you need some new socks,” Doyle reminded him. “Flutter those lovely lashes and you’ll get kitted out for life.”

 

“You realise it’s been two years since we first got it on?” Doyle slid a pair of fried eggs onto Bodie’s plate and sat down to his own muesli.

“Two years? Can’t be,” Bodie protested.

“When we went fishing and the roof fell in. Then best part of a year mucking about.”

“Mucking about? You referring to our refined and delicate courtship?”

“That what you call it?”

“Up until you dislocated my arm that time.” Bodie swallowed the remains of the first croissant. “And seduced me with chocolate biscuits.”

“A whiff of chocolate and you’re anybody’s. Good thing the Cow likes peppermints.”

“My arm’s better now,” Bodie announced. “I can be moving on.”

“Don’t let the door wallop your bum on the way out.”

“Won’t you miss me?”

“Nah. Me aim’s getting much better lately.” Doyle picked up the other croissant and nibbled the end. “Won’t want this if you’re off, will you?”

“Not in that much of a hurry, now I come to think of it.”

“Come on, don’t take all day.” He tossed the croissant onto Bodie’s plate, mercifully cleared now of eggs. “If we get a move on we might get there before the fish hear you’re coming and go off on their usual holidays.”

 

“What’s Doyle’s Pick today, then?”

Doyle’s frowned over the list of runners he had been perusing for any last-minute hunches. “There’s Sweet William in the fifth at Kempton Park.”

Bodie rolled his eyes. “After what happened with Awkward Andrew and Bonny Prince Philip?”

“Well, look at Wee Mad Georgie last time. Four quid profit there. I’ve already got a bet down, anyway.” Doyle leaned back and propped one foot against the dashboard, gazing out of the window. “Nice, isn’t it.”

“Not bad.” Bodie ostentatiously admired the view of Doyle’s crotch. “Getting a bit threadbare round your naughty bits.”

“The scenery, you moron.”

“Thought you hated the country.”

“A day or two’s all right.”

“So what are you backing, then?”

“Tell you if it wins.”

“Not still pining for Flirty Gert, are you?”

“Sod off. Turn left here, then second right and next left again.”

“And here we are—the Green Dragon.” Bodie drew the car into a parking spot. “Hawley’s throbbing centre of nightlife and depravity, I presume. And lunch.”

“Looks all right,” Doyle approved. “Not all tarted up.”

Bodie opened the door and bowed him through.

“Cor,” Doyle murmured. “Look at that, then!”

Bodie whistled softly. “Now that’s—”

“—buxom. That barmaid,” said Doyle, “is definitely what you’d call buxom. Better let me arrange all the fishing trips in future.”

“Good job she wasn’t at Soggy Ceiling or you’d never have talked me into bed.” He dodged the elbow Doyle aimed at his ribs. “Restaurant’s through there.”

Good food. Good beer. An inquiry produced the landlord with the keys and directions. The barmaid smiled and buxomed at them as they passed on the way out.

Bodie sighed. “Bad as coppers. Never there when you want one, all over the place when you don’t.”

The house was a couple of minutes drive, a bungalow set in a high-walled garden, old enough to have mellowed into its surroundings, new enough to offer easy comfort.

“Not bad. Nice and private,” said Bodie, surveying the exterior with satisfaction. “Come on, Ray, you can prune the roses later. Let’s chuck our stuff inside and find all the fish you’ve arranged.”

Reluctantly Doyle abandoned his inspection of the garden and moved towards the front door, only to find it opening from inside.

“Bloody hell,” Bodie murmured. “It’s Granny!”

“Are you Mr Doyle?” asked the middle-aged woman.

“That’s me,” Doyle agreed, surprised.

“Mr Harris said you might come down. I’m Emma Freeman, just come in to clean. I’ve finished for today. Would you like me to come in tomorrow?”

“No thanks, love, we’ll be fine,” Doyle assured her. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well, you’ll find my number on the pad by the phone if there’s anything you need. The shop’s just down the road past the bend. You might want milk and bread, but there’s plenty of tea and coffee and the freezer’s well stocked. Mr Harris said to tell you to make yourselves at home. Isn’t it a lovely day!”

They agreed it was, and after a few more pleasantries she took her leave.

“Thought for a horrible minute she lived in,” said Doyle.

Bodie pushed him through the front door and closed it, then pulled Doyle close. “I was all set to offer her fifty quid to bugger off to the seaside.”

Doyle hugged him. “We haven’t checked to see if the knitting club’s here yet.”

“Probably lurking in the bedroom,” Bodie said. “Let’s go and have a look.”

 

Bodie’s head was pillowed on Doyle’s belly, face relaxed in the sweet aftermath of love. Doyle, leaning back against the headboard, stroked his partner’s dark hair idly, then ventured a questing finger to explore the line of the scarred eyebrow.

Bodie squinted up at him, on the verge of shaking off the touch, then yielding.

“Fight, was it?” Doyle asked.

“Yeah. These three thugs with machetes and me with just the screwdriver I was disarming the bomb with.”

“Atom bomb, was it?”

“Course. Twice the size yours was. Ticking away, so I had to fight them off with one hand and—”

“Unscrew with the other?”

“Bird with fantastic knockers walked by and I got a hard-on and used it for a truncheon.” Bodie heaved himself off the bed. “Come on, fish need catching.”

While he waited for his turn in the bathroom Doyle amused himself sketching a cartoon, giant-phallused, of Bodie’s exploit.

“There you go. Recorded for posterity.” He held up the pad as Bodie returned.

“Let’s have a look.” Bodie grabbed the pad. “Made my essentials a bit smaller than life, I see. What else have you been up to?”

“Oi,” Doyle protested, trying to retrieve his property, but Bodie dodged round the room, flipping the pages.

“Here, when did you do this?” he demanded.

“What? That—this morning.” Doyle waited for the outburst.

Bodie stared at the drawing. “Not showing it to anyone, are you?”

“Not likely,” Doyle assured him, relieved. “But you never want to keep still so I—”

Bodie set the pad down. “It’s just that—I never know what you might be seeing.”

“I’m not clairvoyant, mate. Don’t do auras or whatever it is.”

“No, but...when you look at me like that...” He turned away. “Always felt you’re the only one who really sees me. Knows I’m real.” He started to get dressed. “A bit too intense, know what I mean?”

Doyle groped for words, but a ring at the doorbell interrupted the moment.

“Cowley’s sussed us out.” Bodie finished buttoning his shirt and went to investigate.

Shrill voices floated to Doyle’s ear: “—old Mrs Simpson’s dachshund for a walk—gone under your gate—good deed for the day only she doesn’t know—so lonely and sad outside the Dragon—”

Bodie returned grinning. “Keep away from the windows till you’re decent.”

“What? Girl Guides?”

“Couple of Brownies. You heard? They’ve gone round the back to track it down.”

“You’ll be getting your socks yet, won’t you?” Doyle headed for the bathroom. “Perhaps Miss Buxom from the pub will come and knit them for you.”

Bodie sighed. “Never used to think of barmaids knitting. Ruined me, you have.”

“Cheer up, you’ve got a policeman whenever you want one.”

“Come on, then, let’s get fishing before old Mrs Simpson shows up looking for her dear little doggie and the Brownies fit us up for the job. Thought this place was supposed to be secluded.”

 

The river ran just the other side of the path beyond the back gate, sheltered by a clump of trees. They followed their usual practice of submerging cans of beer in the keep net. “Rather than trudge all those yards up to the fridge,” as Bodie put it.

“All right if I—?” Doyle waved the sketch pad.

“Yeah, go on. You will anyway.”

“If it bothers you...”

“I can stand it. Just don’t sneak up on me asleep, all right? I’ll never be able to shut my eyes again.”

“Not ready to pose for the full colour version in oils, then?”

Bodie gestured explicitly.

Doyle worked for a while with increasing satisfaction, remembering how he’d longed to touch after that first attempt. Now he could conjure the feel, the taste of skin and mouth, the contours of muscles, the knowledge of the hidden places. “Most real thing in my life, you are,” he said abruptly.

“That’s good, is it?” Bodie’s eyes were fixed on the river.

“Bloody good. But look, been meaning to ask, why did you start getting serious at Soggy Ceiling?”

Bodie retrieved a couple of beers from the net. Doyle thought he wouldn’t answer, but after he’d taken a long swallow Bodie asked: “Ever thought of packing it in?”

“About three times a week.”

“The Cow asked me that, when you got shot. Started me thinking. Times when it gets me down, risking it all every time some nutter comes along and never seeming to get anywhere.”

“Well, army, police, it’s like that,” Doyle said. “Mind, I know what you mean. Like that old Greek bloke trying to clean out the stable, never could keep up with the shit. Planning to throw in the towel, were you?”

“It was you, most of it. Couldn’t seem to find girls who’d take my mind off you any more and my contract was coming up. So I thought, all right, make a proper try. If you said no, I’d call it a day.” He laughed, a brief harsh bark. “Didn’t expect you’d say yes. Started making travel plans already. Then after, I was scared out of my mind what I’d got into.”

“Stayed, though.”

“I’d made the bargain with myself. But—said you make me feel I’m real, well, you were too bloody real. Couldn’t get you out of my system. The more we did it—and you started saying that. Love. And I didn’t know if it was me or just what you said to anyone you were shagging. Tried to break off but I couldn’t stay away from you. And you just seemed sort of take-it-or-leave-it.”

Doyle opened his own beer. “Bit of an act, that was. Didn’t want to frighten you off.” He took a long gulp. “Been dodging it for years, the men thing, but once we’d done it—didn’t sleep with any more birds. Never took it past social stuff.”

Bodie twitched his line out of the water, grimaced, dropped it back. “Thought your mate said the fishing was good.”

“You don’t miss them too much, then?” Doyle asked.

“Fish?”

“Birds.”

“Well, I notice them. Don’t you? But it takes all my time keeping you happy. Here, hang on to the rod a minute.”

“What? All right.” Doyle took over while Bodie groped in his pocket for his wallet. “My prices are way up, what with inflation, so be warned.”

“Look.” Bodie produced a deeply creased and fraying sheet of glossy paper. “Been carrying this round since February before last.” He held it so Doyle could see.

“That Valentine acrostic thing we did. Famous Lovers. Oh.” He looked at Beatrice/Dante crossed out to make room for Bodie/Doyle.

“Thought I’d give it to you that night, but couldn’t get the nerve up. Then last February we were on that non-stop surveillance and—”

“Can I have it now?”

“If you want.” Bodie tucked it into Doyle’s shirt pocket and reached to reclaim the rod.

“Hang about,” Doyle protested. The rod was bending. “Got a bite.”

“Let me—christ, look at the size of that!”

“Don’t just stand there, get the net.”

Bodie fumbled to drag it up and the fish plopped in amidst the beer cans.

“There you are, that’s how to do it,” Doyle crowed. “Get the hook out before it croaks.”

“It’s not a frog.” Bodie expertly freed the hook and let the fish escape back into the river. “Typical, that, I do all the work and you get the glory.”

“Want to try your hand at drawing?” Doyle downed the rest of his beer.

“Let’s see.” Bodie reached for the pad. “Here, that’s not bad. Don’t know you’ve quite got my amazing beauty but it’s better than that one you did at Soggy Ceiling. What’s that—? Oh, bloody hell!”

Doyle retrieved his beeping R/T. “Yes, sir—isn’t there anyone—look, we’re—it’s two hours drive so we—yes, sir.”

“Now?” Bodie asked hopelessly. “I knew these new long-range gadgets would be trouble.”

“Try again next time off,” Doyle said consolingly. “Can’t go without socks forever. And we’ve still got the nude sunbathing to try out. Can’t let the Girl Guides down.”

 

“Did it win, then?” Bodie asked next morning, setting down two mugs of tea on the bedside table while Doyle brooded over the paper.

“Bloody useless.”

“Ray—didn’t get in over your head, did you?”

“What?”

“You look kind of gobsmacked. Look, if you need—”

“Oh. Ta. No, it was only a couple of quid.”

“What, then?”

“Daft. Only I’d backed it that day, that first day, and I thought if it won I’d say all right.”

“That’s why you said yes? Because a horse won?”

“Second. It came second, so I thought that was good enough for a start, a sort of omen, and that was the only time it did anything.”

“And if it hadn’t come anywhere you’d have said no?”

“It was a bloody great gamble, you know. Wasn’t sure you weren’t just winding me up, right until we actually started doing it.”

“What’s its name then, this equine omen?”

Doyle reached for the paper folded to the list of results. “Goodwood. Work it out.” He looked away and sipped his tea. “Think the Cow will leave us alone for today? I’ll do us some lasagne unless you want—”

Bodie made an odd sound.

“It’s all right, you can laugh,” Doyle told him, resigned.

Bodie unfolded the paper and made a show of examining the rest of the page.

“What are you after now?” Doyle asked.

“Just thought there might be one called Bodie’s Joy I could have a flutter on.”

 

“So sorry, Mr Doyle.” Sammy’s face was screwed into a wrinkled mass of distress. “Just at the last minute, it was, Miss Patty took poorly and they didn’t want to scratch the horse and—”

“Not to worry.” Doyle paid for bread and chocolate croissants, smiling to himself as he caught sight of the acrostic page folded into his wallet. “Got all the joy I can handle these days.”

“What?” Sammy blinked, bewildered. “Anyway, next Saturday at Epsom...”

Doyle listened with half an ear, trying to remember if the little shop that sold Bodie’s favourite Cumberland sausage would be open yet.

 

END

 

_November 2004_

 


End file.
